


Trade Your Heroes For Ghosts

by Naamah_Beherit



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Canon Universe, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Grand Prix Final Banquet, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Katsuki Yuuri, Post-Banquet, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2018-09-14 01:26:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9150727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naamah_Beherit/pseuds/Naamah_Beherit
Summary: Having endured what was probably the worst day of his life followed by a night he does not remember, Yuuri wakes up with a hangover of the century and a desperate plea for the world to forget about his existence. Alas, the world has other plans.So does a certain Russian skater.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title has been borrowed from the lyrics of _Wish You Were Here_ by Pink Floyd.
> 
> Enjoy!

"If brokenness is a work of art,  
Surely this must be my masterpiece.  
  
I'm only honest when it rains.  
If I time it right, the thunder breaks  
When I open my mouth.  
I want to tell you but I don't know how.  
  
I'm only honest when it rains,  
An open book with a torn out page,  
And my ink's run out.  
I want to love you but I don't know how."

  
Sleeping At Last _Neptune_

* * *

 

Yuuri Katsuki woke up to a relentlessly vibrating phone, sunlight that screamed as it cut through the air, and an axe stuck in his head.

He was vaguely aware of his own hand tucked under his pillow, but he could feel neither it nor the entire upper half of his body. His legs, on the other hand, made him suspect he had filled them with acid at an unspecified point during the previous night, and he would most likely be concerned about that if only his brain worked as it should. Currently, however, it seemed to lag at least a minute  behind him, his body apparently acting on reflexes rather than conscious intents, and it made Yuuri ponder on a thought that he was simply an animated corpse. His career was dead, so it was only logical he was as well.

He rolled to his back as a stray thought dug its way through the mud his brain had been reduced to. It was rather unlikely he _really_ had that axe stuck in his head, so perhaps he was simply nursing the greatest hangover in the world.

If he had enough strength— _any_ strength—he would probably be concerned about that. He knew he _should_ be, for he could not recall even the drinking itself. His mind was running around the memory of being dragged to the banquet hall by Celestino, hushed whispered following them when the bystanders had thought their conversations would no longer be heard. He had tried not to pay attention, he really had, but his good-for-nothing brain had had other plans.

 _You are a failure!_ , it had screamed at him the entire banquet. It still would, even now, if only it had not changed into jelly.

Yuuri briefly entertained an idea that if enough alcohol could silence his treacherous mind, perhaps he should simply indulge himself more often despite that unfortunate trait passed to him by his father. After all, he was in his own hotel room, was he not? If he found his way back from wherever he had been drinking, it could not be that bad. And what he was even worrying about anyway, he had already lost everything.

And on top of it all that damned phone was still buzzing, so Yuuri groaned, grabbed the infuriating thing and for a brief moment considered smashing it against a wall. Then he saw dozens of missed calls, even more messages and notifications... and he realised he could not bring himself to care about any of them. He knew well enough what they were all about and he did not need another reminder about his failure. It was not like he could think about anything else, even without the world trying to throw it back in his face.

He scrolled idly through the seemingly endless list of calls, absent-mindedly cataloguing people who had wanted to talk to him. Minako, of course, then Celestino and Phichit, and an unknown number Yuuri had no idea whom it could belong to. A journalist, most likely. There was absolutely no way he was calling back.

He threw the phone onto his bedside table, not even bothering to read the messages, and fell back onto the bed as a sickening feeling of forgetting something _truly_ important wormed its way to the pitiful remnants of his brain. It was always like that, he thought lazily, his eyes focused on the ceiling he could not even properly see without his glasses. No matter how hard he tried to forget his worries, sooner or later they would always catch up with him, making his mood even worse and causing his already low self-esteem drop below acceptable levels.

Maybe he really should retire, just like Plisetsky had told him. He had been too wrapped up in his own misery to even wonder how it had been possible for a teenager to be _that_ angry. But now, in the bright daylight that cast deep, unforgiving shadows onto every thought and action, those words rang truer with every passing minute.

The phone buzzed again, but Yuuri only grabbed a pillow and put it on his face. He had to get up at some point, he wondered dumbly as his mind was slowly waking up from its alcohol-induced haze. He had to pack up, maybe even force himself to eat something before heading for the airport. The thought of three consecutive flights awaiting him made him nauseous.

He groaned, glanced at the phone to realise both that it was the same unknown number calling again and that the plane to Moscow he was supposed to be on had departed two hours ago, and lumbered to the bathroom, his brain trying in vain to identify that important _something_ that eluded him.

He barely recognised himself in a mirror, but he suspected it was completely normal after messing up so badly, so he only shrugged and hauled himself into the shower. It had taken a couple of minutes for his mind to catch up with the reality, but when it did, it hit Yuuri with the strength of an avalanche. Everything that had been piling up – his failure and desperation, the absolute lack of recollection of the previous night, the fact that he had ruined his only chance of meeting his idol as an equal – all of that came crushing down and buried him beneath the scattered pieces of his hopes and dreams.

“Oh, _god_ ,” he said in astonishment as water washed away the lingering sleepiness. “I missed my flight.”

Yuuri slid down the wall, looked at his uncontrollably shaking hands, and succumbed to a panic attack without a fight.

 

* * *

 

_“Don’t forget to take a picture!” Phichit kept on nagging, because he was, well, Phichit, and photographs were all he could think about. His ever-present excitement slowly began to infect Yuuri as well, though, so he smiled to himself as he tried to close his non-cooperative suitcase. He always brought too much wherever he went._

_“Phichit-kun, it’s the GPF, not a fan club meeting,” he chided half-heartedly, although his hopes happily jumped at the mere thought of the opportunity of having a photo with Viktor Nikiforov. He had long but accepted the bitter truth that he would never completely lose that all-encompassing admiration of a fan, and that was probably why he was still unable to fully acknowledge that he was going to compete against Viktor. It was just as surreal as it had been when he had been clawing his way through competitions that would eventually lead him to the Grand Prix Final._

_“But there’ll be post-competition photoshoots and the banquet and—“_

_“Phichit-kun,” Yuuri interrupted with the lack of confidence he could not fully mask with false optimism, “I probably won’t be able to say ‘hello’ to him without stuttering.”_

_Phichit was by his side in three steps, his hands gripping Yuuri’s shoulders as if his life depended on it. “You’ll do great, Yuuri,” he said with what seemed to be the world’s greatest supply of certainty and trust. “You’ll do great and will sweep everyone off their feet. You’re Japan’s top skater, after all!”_

_Yuuri smiled faintly and then laughed all of a sudden, his life-long dreams for a brief moment seemingly within reach. The Grand Prix Final. If he had been able to tell that to his teenage self, he would have cried tears of joy._

_“Yeah,” he muttered, his eyes drawn to one of the posters he had ended up having even in Detroit. Viktor’s ethereal face made his heart ache with what he had long but convinced himself to attribute to a rather abstract love for skating. “The Grand Prix. With Viktor.”_

_Maybe, he mused as that uncertain smile widened despite his will and common sense, maybe he would have that photo taken._

 

* * *

 

The absolute lack of available plane seats had left Yuuri stranded in Sochi for one more day.

It was to be expected, he thought, his attention focused solely on the glass of water he was holding in his hands, the drink blissfully cold and soothing on his suffering stomach. With so many fans swarming the city, he was surprised to have been able to buy a ticket for a plane departing already the following day rather than the following week, even if the aforementioned ticket had turned out to be the most expensive one in his entire life.

He had stubbornly decided to worry about next two flights later and thus ended up at the hotel restaurant with a jug of water on the table and the perpetually refilled glass in his hands. His phone was still buzzing where it lay display-down on the table, but Yuuri morosely decided to ignore it. He always ignored things when they became too much to bear, his tired mind stubbornly refusing to deal with the overwhelming reality. He was perfectly aware that it would only make everything worse in the very near future and he was undoubtedly going to be cursing himself because of that sooner rather than later.

Knowing it all did not make it any easier to break out of the fog of self-pity and misery-fuelled blame. He could not even remember the hopes and expectations he had been harbouring before the competition. What mattered was that he had failed. His family, his friends, his teachers, his entire _country_.

He had failed himself, his own hopes and dreams, and that probably hurt the most.

Yuuri eventually – if asked, he would be unable to say how much time had passed, for the world had melted into a grey background filled with an unintelligible noise he could not force himself to care about – picked up his phone and briefly considered delving head-on into social media despite having done that the previous night and regretting it momentarily. In the end he opted for marking all those new messages as read without even bothering to have a look at them. He would have to reply at some point, and to return the calls as well. He could not bring  himself to even think about it.

A new text joined already umpteen messages from that unknown number he had noticed earlier. Yuuri wondered briefly who was _that_ persistent in their attempts to contact him. His curiosity sparked to life much to his own surprise.

 _DAMMIT YUURI,_ it read in capital letters that almost _screamed_ of frustration even though he had absolutely no idea what might have caused it, _where r u? I’m at your room and you’re not HERE._

Yuuri, experiencing an unexpected surge of amusement laced with a great deal of desperation, scrolled through the conversation in an attempt to find anything that would help him identify the sender. Alas, there was nothing except rapidly deteriorating mood permeating those messages, which had started quite friendly—if not outward flirty, but who would ever want to flirt with _him_?—then passed through concerned and eventually became angry. And it was completely one-sided.

He must have done something the previous night and was torn between the urge to hide from whatever it was, and actually finding out. And maybe – just maybe, a tiny sliver of possibility – he also considered facing his mistakes like an adult he was. Thus, acting on a whim of courage he decided to use before it was swept away by a bubbling wave of anxiety, Yuuri typed, _I’m downstairs at the restaurant_ , and sent it immediately so that he did not have time to think better of it.

 _I’m coming DON’T MOVE_ , came the instant response and _of course_ Yuuri had to fight back an impulse telling him to run away.

 _Ok but who’s this?_ he texted back after a while, but received nothing in return. It was no surprise, truly. He knew he should not drink too much—not with the way his inhibitions tended to be tossed to the wind once he passed a certain level of alcohol consumption—but that had not stopped him. And, he stubbornly mused further on the subject, absent-mindedly playing with his glass, with the way the previous day had unfolded, who could blame him for trying to forget about all that for even a moment?

His mind unwillingly strayed toward the Final and he had to stop it with every bit of willpower he managed to muster. If he did not do that, he would have a panic attack right in the middle of the hotel restaurant and he really did not want to add _that_ to his already impressive list of embarrassing situations he had faced in Sochi.

Those thoughts still lurked on the edge of his consciousness, ready to crawl back and assault him if he let them. Yuuri sighed heavily, downed his water and refilled the glass again, his dehydrated body ferociously demanding a constant supply of water. At least his headache had subsided, probably sunk under Yuuri’s bottomless reservoir of anxiety and insecurities. He was well aware of them, but that knowledge did not change the fact that the crippling, toxic mockery of emotions held him tightly in its grasp.

Then his thoughts halted for a moment—which he used to draw a long, relaxed breath for the first time that day—when a very dishevelled-looking Viktor Nikiforov stormed into the restaurant. Yuuri could swear he heard a few camera shutters going off as his life-long idol was desperately looking around for someone, and it left Yuuri wondering what Plisetsky had done to warrant such a reaction. Then Viktor fixed his gaze on _him_ , his entire face lighting up like a Christmas tree, and Yuuri thought, _Oh_.

“Yuuri!” the living legend shouted at the top of his lungs, waved—Yuuri’s mind seemed to disengage at that—and all but ran toward him only to gracefully plop into one of empty chairs at his table. Then he shot him such a bright, happy, and completely disarming smile that Yuuri’s stomach did a quadruple flip better than Yuuri himself ever could.

He was torn between fainting and wishing the ground opened up and swallowed him whole.

“Yuuri,” Viktor said again and the way he spoke his name did unspeakable things to Yuuri’s insides, “I’ve been calling you all morning!”

 _Oh_ , Yuuri thought again, his detached brain apparently unwilling to return to its full functionality. His face was burning, though, but that was kind of a constant for him.

“You have?” he heard himself asking and mentally congratulated himself on making his throat work. He glanced at his phone, recalled that one-sided flood of messages, and connected one thing to another. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Viktor echoed after him and put his chin on his hand, his blue eyes focused on Yuuri as if he were the only being in the universe. “I was worried I wouldn’t catch you before you left.”

What was left of Yuuri’s mind, promptly decided to take a break. Why was Viktor—why did he—why? Frantic thoughts chased one after another, while Viktor was looking at him with a smile wider than any of those Yuuri had ever seen – and as a devoted fan, he had seen a lot. Then a realisation hit him like hammer and he rested his forehead on the table, his strength seeping out of him in unstoppable waves.

“I did something, didn’t I? Last night?” he mumbled, trying to find comfort in the table that was blissfully cold against his burning face. “What did I do?”

Viktor chuckled at that – a pure, utterly joyous sound that sent Yuuri’s mind reeling and awoke that monster of anxiety and panic he managed to keep in check since he had left his room – and patted him gently on the head. Yuuri’s heart stopped.

“You’ve stolen something of mine,” he answered, his tone cheeky and carefree, and Yuuri’s already weak heart plummeted into suffocating depths of disquiet, “and I decided to take something of yours in return. It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

Yuuri sobbed something unintelligible, no longer capable of holding it back. He was _not_ going to cry here, not in front of Viktor, not—

“Yuuri?”

Viktor’s voice was quiet now, worried and laced with so much concern that it made Yuuri want to curl under a blanket and remain there until the end of the world. He could never appropriately react when someone was trying to console him and now this someone was _Viktor Nikiforov_.

It was just a delirious dream caused by too much alcohol. Nothing more. Maybe if he kept repeating that, he would finally believe it.

“Yuuri?” Viktor said again, this time in nothing but a whisper, and Yuuri gathered enough strength to straighten up and look at his idol-turned competitor-turned... he did not even know, who.

 _How do you know my name?_ he wanted to ask. _Why do you have my number? Why are you here,_ staring _at me?_

He failed to give voice to either of those.

“I’m really sorry for whatever I’ve done,” he muttered looking _anywhere_ but in those blue eyes he knew better than his own. “I never—I can’t—“

He broke off and closed his eyes in a desperate and futile attempt to shut off the world that was simply _too much_.

“How about we talk somewhere in private?” he heard after a while of tense silence and his eyes snapped open at that almost hesitant question. Viktor’s expression was neutral, guarded even, and it made Yuuri wonder what it would take to put that bright smile back where it belonged. “We could go out for a walk and chat if you have some free time. And if you want, of course.”

It was a way out he craved so desperately. Then again, running away never got him anywhere, did it not? And on top of it all, it was _Viktor_.

“Yes,” Yuuri whispered and _ah,_ there was that smile again. “I’d like that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me start with a huge THANK YOU to all of you who left kudos, subscribed, and commented on this story. I am blown away. Truly.

Yuuri was just a child when he had seen Viktor Nikiforov’s performance for the first time. It had resembled a spiritual experience, watching that already not a boy and not yet a man glide across the ice, his moves graceful and refined and much more fluid than it should ever be possible for a human being. Yuuri was unsure what he had truly felt that day, because the overwhelming mixture of admiration and awe had been too much to process, but he had had a word for it: ‘beautiful’. That otherworldly, ethereal being had been the epitome of beauty.

He had acquired and hung the first poster soon after that day and thus Viktor’s impossibly beautiful face had begun to give him strength to face his days with a heart slightly lighter than it usually had been. At some point it had even given him enough courage to undertake skating more complex than just effortless circles on the ice.

He had ended up bruised and sore, but at the same time happier than he had ever been before, and it had made him grit his teeth and go back to the rink the following day. It had given him precious memories, friends he had not expected to find, and a faithful companion who would always be there for him to lick the tears off his face when he had faced seemingly endless nights full of anxiety and self-doubt.

He was already a teenager when he had participated in his first competition and brought home his first medal.

_(silver, it was silver and he could not stop looking at it, wishing it were something else – something just as silver – he was holding in his trembling hands)_

Elation and hormones had caught up with him that night, feelings and sensations he had not understood, had been overwhelmed by, and maybe even afraid of when they had resurfaced from his subconscious and slipped past seemingly unbreakable bars of denial. He had woken up hot, flustered and mortified, his mind full of images of a _very_ vivid dream that had made him unable to look at the posters for a few days afterwards.

Yuuri had begun skating because of Viktor, but had continued to because he had loved it. Over the years, those two reasons had become interchangeable to a point of mingling together and creating an entirely _new_ reason, a mind-blowing amalgam of love, skating, and Viktor, as if those three elements held the exact same meaning and could not be separated without damaging one another.

The only element that had never undergone any changes was Viktor. He was just as beautiful as he had been the day Yuuri had seen him on a TV screen, even though his childish mind had been unable to fully comprehend the concept of beauty. He was perfect and ethereal, ice personified, a symbol of everything Yuuri had always aspired to be.

Ice was harsh and unforgiving, and symbols were untouchable. And so was Viktor Nikiforov.

 

* * *

 

They ended up on a beach.

It was covered in a thin blanket of snow and caressed by waves rolling gently against the shore in a rhythm that always eased Yuuri’s worries and lulled his mind into a state of relaxed detachment. He always imagined the waves washing over him and taking away every thought he tormented himself over until there was nothing left but the steady, soothing hum of the sea.

Viktor was walking beside him, silent and apparently deep in thought, close enough to be touched if it only were possible. Yuuri tried not to even think about it, for agonising over his presence was already almost too much. He pretended to ignore the silence between them, thick, heavy, and uncomfortable; the kind of which he was painfully familiar with, when neither of parties involved knew what to say to so much as even begin a conversation.

He should have gone to his room and holed up there until it was time to go to the airport.

“So, Yuuri,” Viktor finally said, his voice calm and neutral, “when are you leaving? I’d hate to keep you here longer than I should.”

 _You can keep me here as long as you want_ , Yuuri thought and hesitantly glanced at his companion. Viktor was looking at him, his impossibly blue eyes shining with interest and... could that be hope? Yuuri blushed and focused his attention on the sand instead.

“Tomorrow,” he answered, his voice barely audible over the perpetual whisper of the waves. “I was supposed to leave today, but I, uhm... I missed my flight.”

He said that and groaned inwardly immediately afterwards, realising that his mouth disengaged from his brain and spewed words on its own, no matter how embarrassing they were. _Of course_ he would end up babbling, was there ever any doubt about that?

“You missed your flight?” Viktor repeated incredulously, stopping in his tracks for a moment. “How did that—why didn’t your coach wake you?”

“It’s not his fault,” Yuuri immediately rushed to take the blame off Celestino, ignoring that painfully logical assumption that it _was_ a couch’s responsibility to look after their pupils if they were unable to do that themselves. “Celestino knows I can take care of myself. It’s my fault entirely that I overslept.”

“He should’ve checked up on you regardless.”

“I shouldn’t have drunk so much to begin with.”

“Yuuri...” Viktor broke off and the way he said it made Yuuri’s heart clench because of an indescribable emotion. Vowels were prolonged and the accent was off, but hearing his own name spill from Viktor’s lips was almost too much. It was more than he had ever imagined.

And definitely more than he had experienced after the competition.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” he suggested and forced himself to look at Viktor. “I don’t remember a single thing from the banquet, so _please_ tell me what I... _took_ from you, because I have absolutely no idea what that might be.”

Viktor’s eyes were on him again and Yuuri thought it was absolutely impossible for a human to bestow so much attention unto someone. It was the kind of look appropriate for witnessing the birth of a star in the darkest depths of the universe. It was too much, too heavy, and yet it made him feel so _light_ with the knowledge that he was no longer a nameless fan.

Then Viktor’s cheeks were suddenly graced with a tinge of redness and Yuuri—for what seemed to be an umpteen time that day—though, _Oh_.

“I’ve made a fool of myself, haven’t I?” Viktor laughed and rubbed the back of his neck in a way that screamed of embarrassment. “You’ve worked yourself up over that and I... Well, it was just a cheesy pick up line.”

“What?”

“I was flirting with you,” Viktor smiled brightly and Yuuri froze right there where he was standing in front of him, mouth hanging open and bloodshot eyes focused on his face. “I kind of assumed you remembered the banquet and just... picked up where we’d left off.”

“You...” Yuuri blinked a few times, “we... _what_?!”

Viktor gave him a soft and

_(seductive)_

almost mysterious smile Yuuri had _never_ seen in any of his numerous photoshoots or interviews, and then gently took his hand at which the teenage fan buried deep in his subconscious had a heart attack. The man he was now was inclined to do the same.

“Yuuri,” Viktor said in a sensuous voice that chased away pitiful remnants of Yuuri’s common sense and replaced them with white-hot breathlessness that burnt in his body and mind like nothing else did before, “you stole my heart last night and I’d very much like to know what you’re intending to do with it. It’s a fragile thing, you know?”

 _That’s it_ , Yuuri thought extremely slowly, flabbergasted and mesmerised by the man in front of him, _this is how I die_.

Even through the fabric of his gloves he could feel a thumb rubbing gently on the back of his hand, telling him precious nonsense in a physical language he did not understand. He was hyper-aware of his surroundings, of the way his scarf was scratching the skin of his neck, of the annoying crunch of the frozen sand and snow under his shoes, of the way the afternoon light was reflected in Viktor’s eyes, and of the man himself, smelling like a breeze and—a little bit—a dog. He saw it all, experienced it all, and latched himself onto the world-shattering certainty that it could _not_ be happening.

That was Viktor Nikiforov, the man he had been looking up to his entire life, the man who had inspired him to become a figure skater all those years ago, the man who was perfect and untouchable.

The man who had not even recognised him after the competition they had both participated in.

“Is this some kind of a joke?” Yuuri heard himself ask and instinctively tore his hand away from Viktor’s grasp. “How can you even say something like that?”

“Yuuri—“

“You didn’t even know who I was yesterday!” he yelled, his voice carrying the unmistakeable note of hysteria. It made his heart freeze, because the last thing he needed was another panic attack. “You thought I was a random fan, but I—my entire life—I—and now you—“

All of a sudden there were hands on his shoulders and it was almost as if they anchored him to  reality with seemingly unbreakable chains.

“Yuuri, you need to breathe,” Viktor pleaded quietly, his voice full of incomprehension. “You’re talking too fast, it’s like—“

“It’s nothing,” Yuuri interrupted and took a deep breath. It was better than hyperventilating, because if he began, once thing would lead to another and he would—

 _Stop_ , he told himself, because for the moment he still could.

“I guess I owe you an apology,” Viktor said in a voice barely louder than a whisper. “For yesterday.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Yuuri objected, his eyes transfixed on the sea, because it _did_ matter and it _hurt_ and if he averted his gaze from the waves, he would mentally implode.

“I’m a forgetful person, you know?” Viktor went on, either not paying attention to what was just said, or dismissing it altogether. His words were rushed in what seemed to be a complete lack of consideration. “Always have been. I forget names, promises, things I have to do, all sort of stuff.”

“It’s all right, you—“

“No, it’s _not_ all right,” it was Viktor’s turn to interrupt and Yuuri was surprised at the vehemence behind that statement. “I was going to talk to you before the competition, because we'd never been introduced, but I couldn't find you anywhere and it sort of— _ah,_ I should've said something else when I finally saw you. I messed up, didn’t I?”

At that Yuuri turned his eyes to him, because messing up various and many an aspect and situation in life was his speciality. It was what he understood and could relate to, even though he found it nigh impossible to believe that the man in front him – that perfect, beautiful man who could bend the ice and gravity itself to his will – would ever mess _anything_ up. And yet the signs were there; subtle, almost unnoticeable – a dullness reflected in those breathtaking blue eyes and a worried frown on his forehead – but present nonetheless, and the image of Viktor in Yuuri’s mind suddenly cracked. Barely, nearly imperceptibly; an annoying imperfection that seeped into the impeccable reality, and it made him stumble and stop.

Never before dared he consider a possibility that the person beneath the legend might not be just as splendid as his image. Never before had they talked, so Yuuri took a deep breath and looked the legend in the eyes, searching for a glimpse of the man under the mask of perfection.

“Yes, you did,” he said, at which Viktor’s expression for a moment changed into something akin to regret, “but so did I, right?”

“What? No, no, you—“

“I ruined your evening,” Yuuri smiled wistfully and this time Viktor gaped at him in absolute bewilderment. “I mean, I don’t remember anything, but I imagine that a drunk failure like me—“

He broke off with a startled yelp when Viktor grabbed his hand and pulled him close, much closer than Yuuri had ever allowed anyone into his personal space. He felt Viktor’s free hand slid around his waist, the presence of its unfamiliar touch burning on his back despite many layers of clothes he was wearing. It was new, it was confusing, terrifying even, and he felt a tidal wave of panic well up as his heartbeat quickened. It fed off his confusion and disappointment, and those were plenty.

Then Viktor whirled him around in an impromptu dance right there on the frozen beach, their moves accompanied only by the constant murmur of the waves crashing against the shore and a mindlessly hummed melody that no longer even resembled music, and the panic swelling in Yuuri’s chest halted when bafflement took over his mind. He fumbled for right steps as Viktor led on, carelessly but with a great enthusiasm, physically close enough for his breath to tickle Yuuri’s cheek. It was irresponsible and ridiculous and enchanting at the same time, and completely different from what he envisioned his idol to be like. Even in his wildest, most embarrassing teenage dreams Yuuri had not imagined Viktor like _this_ , holding his hand and looking at him as if there were no tomorrow.

A new wave of panic came crushing down and Yuuri realised he was breathing too fast. He desperately clawed at the world at hand, trying to find something to hold on to, _anything_ that would prevent him from slipping into the bottomless well of anxiety where that monster shaped of his own thoughts and fears was waiting to engulf and suffocate him.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Viktor chuckled, his steps slowing down and becoming much less chaotic. “If anything, you turned that extremely boring event into a truly memorable night and I couldn’t be more grateful for that. So, Yuuri Katsuki, don’t you dare calling yourself a failure.”

“How can you even say that?” Yuuri whispered, trying to step away from the embrace that was getting more and more uncomfortable with each passing minute. “You don’t know me.”

“But I would very much like to get to know you.”

Yuuri used to imagine hearing those words from Viktor on those rare occasions when he had allowed his daydreams to run wild und unstoppable, constructing a refuge from the world whenever it had become too bright and too loud. And when he had escaped into his imagination it had been... _pleasant_ , the interaction that had been meant to change Viktor from a face in a photograph to a real person with whom he could interact. Now, when it was finally happening, Yuuri had to fight his own desire to fall to his knees and weep, for the person his idol had met was a drunk, reckless caricature of him, irresponsibly drowning his thoughts in champagne because they had been too much to deal with.

He realised he could no longer breathe.

“Viktor,” he croaked, his voice barely audible, “people are watching.”

Were they? He did not know, did not remember what the world used to be like before it contracted and reduced itself to a tiny pocket of space, containing only the two of them, forgotten and frozen in time.

“Let them.”

“Let them _not_ ,” he insisted and tugged his hand forcefully enough to pull it from Viktor’s grasp for the second time that day. And suddenly he was standing on his own, alone, a ghost of touch still lingering on the small of his back as the real world caught up with them. It was cold, harsh, and unforgiving.

“Are you...” he heard a quiet, hesitant question that rang in his ears, “are you all right?”

 _No, I’m definitely_ not _all right._

“I’m...” Yuuri stuttered and drew a shaky breath, trying to steady his voice before he mustered enough strength to wrap in words the only possible answer to that question. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m so—“

“I mean it,” Viktor cut him in before Yuuri could even decide what he was sorry about this time. There was plenty of reasons he could choose from. “What I said earlier. I’d love to get to know you, but if you don’t want that, then... Well, I guess—“

“I do,” he blurted out before he could stop himself, because it was _Viktor_ and how could he ever refuse such a request? “But this is...”

He broke off, collecting scattered, tired thoughts that stubbornly slipped through his grasp. Viktor was watching him in silence, one finger resting on his lips, and his expression was getting increasingly solemn. Yuuri knew the look in his eyes, had seen it often enough in his own.

It was the hollow gaze of someone whose hopes did not survive a confrontation with reality.

“It’s just that you’re you,” he finally stammered, unsure if there even were anything he could say not to ruin it all, “and I’m... well, _me_ and... well.”

Viktor let out a chuckle at that, a dry, fake sound that made Yuuri cringe. “Well,” he mimicked, “I’m me and you’re you, I wholeheartedly agree with that conclusion. I don’t see how it’s relevant, though. Unless we’re talking philosophy, but I’m far too sober for that.”

Yuuri resisted a sudden urge to sigh in exasperation. His cheerfulness sounded strained, almost forced, and the neutral

_(fake, it was fake, it was only on his lips and did not reach his eyes, and they were glossy and empty. Dead)_

smile could not be more different from the one Viktor had been giving him earlier. That smile had lightened up his entire face, whereas this one broke Yuuri’s heart into unnumbered pieces. He did that. It was his fault those blue eyes dulled with a shadow cast by broken dreams.

He suddenly felt sick.

“It just... it doesn’t make sense,” he blurted, racking his brain for any kind of explanation he could save himself with. “I’m just a dime a dozen skater who blows up every chance he gets and you’re... You’re Viktor Nikiforov. The living legend. Why would you even...”

 _Look at me at all?_ he thought, but did not say that aloud. It seemed he did not need to, though, because he could clearly see how forcefully Viktor gritted his teeth. There was ice in his eyes, all that former fondness gone as if it were never there, and in that moment Yuuri realised he just ruined something much more important than a competition.

The flirty comment about a fragile heart unexpectedly resonated in his ears again and its tone was sour and full of regret. Like everything since the moment he had woken up. Like Sochi itself.

“And what’s wrong with me being just Viktor and you being just Yuuri?” Viktor asked after a long while, his voice quiet and thoughtful, full of emotions Yuuri could not decipher but felt nonetheless, every single one of them jabbing at his heart and leaving him numb. “You didn’t seem to mind yesterday. And besides, life would be extremely boring if it made sense, don’t you think?”

He watched an uncertain, lopsided smile appear and then quickly die on Viktor’s face as silence stretched uncomfortably between them, poignant and reverberating with a mournful song of unfulfilled expectations. He wished how to brush it all off, laugh and see where it would take him if he played along. He wished he knew how to look at the man in front of him and see the person rather than the face in his posters.

“I’m so—“

“Forget it,” Viktor interrupted with a blinding smile Yuuri knew so well. It was the kind of smile that greeted the fans and the reporters, the smile he showed to the world after winning yet another gold medal. For the first time in over a decade Yuuri realised how false and forced it was. “Let’s just... let’s get back to the hotel, _da_? Your coach must be looking for you.”

Yuuri flinched at that remark, dreading the inevitable lecture Celestino was surely going to give him. No matter how many times he insisted he had not needed his coach to watch and fret over him, no matter how many times he had proven himself capable of pushing his anxiety aside long enough to function properly when need be, he doubted his latest failure would be that easily overlooked and forgotten.

And then Viktor turned on his heel and started his way back towards the hotel, and Yuuri’s heart shattered at the sight. He used to dream of meeting that man. He used to drown himself in vaguely imagined scenarios of showing him just how great an inspiration he had found in him. And now he was letting him go – the man he admired, the man he looked up to, the man who admitted to _flirting_ with him – because his own mind turned him into a coward unable to reach over the endless sea of his insecurities.

His heart twisted painfully and for once Yuuri decided to listen to it instead.

“Viktor!” he yelled, much louder than he should have, but it was more than obvious that he would be unable to say a single word if he settled for a quieter tone. Nikiforov stopped and turned around, obviously surprised, but Yuuri did not give him a chance to speak. He needed to let his thoughts out, to let it _all_ out, and it was his only chance to make this right before the panic advanced on him and reduced him to a sobbing mess. “I’m not good at... _this_ , at... people, and I’m going through a really bad patch right now so I’m even worse than usually, but... I’d like that too. Get to know you, that is. I’ve been... Yeah, I’d like that.”

A small, much more natural smile blossomed on Viktor’s face and this time it reached his eyes, melting the ice within them and giving way to something faint and tiny, yet perfectly noticeable. Yuuri wondered if a new hope were just born and found himself rather pleased with that concept. Hopes were good.

He remembered he used to have them as well.

“Okay,” Viktor said, his voice full of joy once again. It was astounding how quickly his mood could apparently change. He was always so perfect, so composed—

Yuuri filed that observation away in his memory, a tiny bit of information about the man behind the legend. Maybe in time he would be able to collect enough pieces to construct a new image of him. Something more... human. Something real.

“Let’s start simple,” Viktor practically bounced towards him and extended his hand. “I’m Viktor.”

Yuuri glanced down at the hand and then back up at his face. “I know,” he said, unable to hide his amusement. Viktor only shook his head and tut-tutted with a half-serious disapproval.

“Come on, play along. What’s your name, handsome stranger I just happened to meet?”

“I...” Yuuri began and shook his head as a faint chuckle escaped his lips. Chuckles were good. Anything else than crying was in fact _very_ good, so he took the extended hand and shook it firmly. “I’m Yuuri.”

“Just Yuuri?” Viktor asked in a cheerful tone.

“Just Yuuri,” he confirmed and reluctantly ended the handshake. “Just Viktor?”

“Just Viktor.”

He nodded and smiled hesitantly, which caused Viktor to _beam_ at him. It was an addictive sight, that joyous expression of his, and it made the untouchable image crack even further. Yuuri realised he liked those cracks, tiny as they might be. They hinted at something completely different buried beneath them and it might yet prove captivating.

“I’m going out with Christophe in the evening, do you want to come with us?” Viktor suggested out of the blue, as if he just recalled that unrelated fact and could not stop himself from asking. “Nothing extravagant, just a little post-competition tradition we carry on. I’d be delighted if you joined us.”

Yuuri always had a few excuses ready for situations such as this, polished to perfection over the years of rejecting similar invitations. Only Phichit had turned out to be stubborn enough not to fall for his pretexts and managed to gradually peel off layers afters layers of Yuuri’s protective walls and replace them with comfortable familiarity.

He was surprised to find himself willing to go, but it was nothing unusual that he was afraid to.

“What about Chris?” he asked, fully aware that it was just a pathetic attempt to stall over making that rather simple decision. “I’m not sure he’ll be happy with me intruding into your traditional night out.”

“It’s just the evening, there’s not enough time for a party,” Viktor corrected as they slowly walked away from the beach. “And trust me, he’ll be thrilled. With how much he gushed about you this morning, I’m worried he’d try to steal you for himself if only he didn’t already have a boyfriend.”

And there it was again, the familiar flame of embarrassment devouring Yuuri’s face. He briefly considered asking what exactly had happened the night before, but in the end thought better of it. It was not something he was ready to know. He would probably never be despite the weak curiosity meekly demanding his attention.

“Come _on_ , Yuuri,” Viktor’s whining brought his thoughts back to reality and to the Russian living legend, who was walking beside him and pouted like a child forbidden to eat a cake. “Don’t make me come to your room later and bodily drag you with us. Because I _will_ do that if that’s what it takes.”

“Is that a threat?” Yuuri snorted, trying to ignore a small voice that lodged itself at the back of his head and kept telling him that it was impossible Viktor Nikiforov would be seriously interested in spending the evening in his company.

“That’s a _promise_ ,” Viktor corrected with a predatory gleam in his blue eyes. “Although if you want, I _could_ come over—“

“No!” Yuuri screamed, causing a few passer-by to glance at him suspiciously and Viktor to burst out laughing. The sound of it brought a blush to Yuuri’s face he desperately tried to hide behind his scarf. “I’m good. I mean, you don’t need to. I’ll go with you.”

His companion shouted happily in Russian, the melodic sound of that cry of joy making him smile involuntarily. Maybe it was a good idea, to spend the evening out instead of wallowing in self-pity in the solitude of his hotel room. Maybe it would help him forget about the last couple of days, because he sure as hell needed a distraction.

Maybe he could really do it.

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, he could not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://naamah-beherit.tumblr.com/) in case you'd like to say hello, file a complaint report, or witness occasional floods of photos of dogs and the outer space.


	3. Chapter 3

Thoughts never made much sense when he tried to say them aloud, so in time he simply stopped trying.

“Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me you needed me? _Davvero_ , Yuuri, I’m your coach! We must trust each other!”

He knew that. It made perfect sense on a conscious level and he had been trying to convince himself to believe in those simple truths for _years_. And yet all he could think of was, ‘Why didn’t you notice? How could you not have noticed?’.

And as always all he could say was, “Yes, coach. I’m sorry.”

He wondered how he could possibly have given voice to unspeakable thoughts he had never shared with anyone before. If he acknowledged his demons, they would have power over him forever.

Just because he lived with them, did not mean he was ready to face them.

“ _Allora_ , listen to me. When I come back to Detroit, we’ll start working on our relationship. We’re going to talk, do you hear me? We’re going to talk this through and work everything out. And then we’re going to prepare you for the Nationals.”

He wondered sometimes if talking was truly that effortless as everyone claimed it to be. He wondered what it would feel like to let go. Would his mind be peaceful and bright, and his heart light if he scattered his worries to the four winds? Would he be able to forget them?

Would he still be himself?

And so he said, “Yes, coach,” because what else could he say? How could he say that the very thing he had once loved was now choking him until no air remained in his lungs?

“Get some rest, Yuuri. And don’t worry about the plane tickets, I’ll take care of them.”

No. _No._ He could do that himself. He _needed_ to do that himself.

He needed to know he could still fix his own problems.

“Yes, coach. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Yuuri...”

_I’m sorry._

_Sorry_.

 

* * *

 

_(Later—when slow minutes of dawn would be passing measured only by heartbeats and when Yuuri’s exhausted mind would finally be free of the numbing haze of anxiety—he would look in wonder at strands of ashen blond hair tickling his shoulder, feel the breath fanning almost imperceptibly over his skin, and ponder on how painful it was going to be to wake up from this dream._

_Later—when the soft morning light would paint abstract shapes on the discoloured carpet—he would allow himself to entertain an idea of getting used to waking up beside someone, and that thought would be warm, golden, and would shatter the dream into tiny shards with which a new reality could be built._

_Later..._

_Later, he would smile.)_

 

* * *

 

“’What is wrong with you Russians?” Christophe Giacometti asked with an evidently audible curiosity that bordered on fascination. Viktor huffed indignantly at that remark, taking a swig from a bottle he was cradling in his hands, and Yuuri wondered briefly how exactly his life had led him to a point of sitting sandwiched between those two skaters on a single hotel bed far too narrow to accommodate three adult men, while sharing the bottle of vodka and watching the weirdest videos YouTube had to offer for the past two hours.

It was surreal, he thought with this particular kind of detachment that allowed him to register his surroundings from the position of an almost impersonal observer. He remembered Viktor departing from his side upon their return to the hotel, his absence unexpectedly more predominant than that of the sun on a dark winter day. He remembered spiralling down a vortex of self-doubt soon after that and apologising over an unreasonably long text message in which he had explained that he would have to decline the invitation after all.

He remembered Viktor texting back only a single sad face that had somehow conveyed more than a thousand words and hurt even more so. And then, despite having taken that first step on the road towards the biggest mistake of his life and being sure that he would be swiftly forgotten, Viktor and Chris – already obviously tipsy and armed with the brightest and happiest of smiles – had appeared on his doorstep and paid absolutely no heed to his stuttered protests and excuses.

“ _Eto podlinnaya russkaya vodka!_ ” Viktor had joyfully exclaimed and shoved the bottle into Yuuri’s hands as if that had solved all the problems in the world and dispelled every single of Yuuri’s worries.

And Yuuri did not even fully understand what that meant.

“What do you mean what’s wrong with us?” Viktor asked, his words slightly slurred and full of incredulity. “Nothing’s wrong with us, we’re amazing! We’re funny and beautiful and—“

“And you torture cats,” Christophe cut him in and pointed at the laptop. “Look at that poor thing, it’s terrified!”

“You say that like it’s my fault.”

“I _do_ need to blame it on someone, don’t I? It’s not like I’m going to use our dear Yuuri for that.”

Yuuri was fairly certain that if he had not felt that detachment infused with a small and admittedly reasonable amount of vodka, he would have already run to the bathroom and curled on the floor in the attempt of fighting off an anxiety attack.

He already stopped trying to think of any possible reasons that could have caused those two to forego their plans for the evening in favour of spending it in his company. He tried to forget how good it felt to laugh at yet another video suggested by Viktor, each one of them more ridiculous than its predecessor, because it was familiar and almost normal and he was sure it was never going to happen again.

“You just can’t forgive me I didn’t vote for Switzerland last year,” Viktor pouted like a child and passed the bottle to Yuuri, who realised that it was time to stop drinking unless he wanted a repeat of the previous night.

“You _never_ vote for Switzerland,” Christophe admonished him half-heartedly and accepted the bottle Yuuri handed over to him. He gave it a scrutinising look, shrugged, and drank what little alcohol was left inside. “Couldn’t you have at least bought some fine wine? This stuff—“

“ _Nyet_ ,” Viktor interrupted happily and snapped a photo of Yuuri’s laptop for reasons unknown. It made just as much as sense as their entire conversation about voting. “We’re in Russia, so we’re drinking vodka. If we ever end up drinking on your beautiful Swiss meadows again, _then_ you can choose the finest wine of them all.”

“I’m _never_ letting you drink in my house again.”

Viktor’s laugh, loud and full of mirth and unconstrained to a point of being contagious, was a sound Yuuri quickly realised he would never tire of. It was another facet of Viktor he had not been aware of, just like the pouting he had witnessed earlier and the barely controlled excitement at the tiniest of things. There was a discord in his mind, a growing chasm between the image he had been cultivating for years and the real man sprawled on the too small hotel bed. He knew he was missing the context, the entire world that Viktor’s life constituted of, the knowledge of their shared past and inside jokes that flowed like a river between him and Christophe. Every single gesture and word, every quirk, even the flush on his cheeks and the unadulterated joy of sharing yet another video of poodles – Yuuri filed all of that in his memory like precious stones, priceless, ephemeral, and never to be witnessed again.

He almost managed to forget being the awkward third wheel during the entire evening. It could in all likelihood be attributed to the magical effects of vodka.

“Yuuri, what’s your Instagram username?” Viktor asked after a moment, his attention focused on whatever text he was typing on his phone. Yuuri glanced at him and had to fight back the urge to thread his fingers through the strands of Viktor’s hair. He was far too sober and self-conscious to indulge in his teenage fantasies.

“I don’t have one,” he answered, clearing his throat a few times before speaking in order to regain the usual tone of his voice. “It’s not really my thing.”

“Oh _no_ ,” Viktor whined and rolled to his side, jabbing his bony knee into Yuuri’s shin in the process, and for a second Yuuri saw more stars than even existed in the universe. “How am I supposed to tag you then?”

“Uhm... don’t?”

Viktor heaved himself upwards to unabashedly prop his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder and root him in  place with an expression of utmost regret and heartbreak. His eyes were perfect imitations of the look Vicchan had been making while begging for treats. “But _Yuuri_ ,” he pleaded, blinking innocently in a way that betrayed years of practice and the awareness of what exactly that look did to people. And right now Yuuri wanted to melt. “Please?”

“No,” he said, desperately holding onto pitiful remnants of his resolve that somehow stopped him from registering on Instagram right that second. “ _Please_.”

“You’re losing your touch, _mon ami_ ,” Christophe happily chimed in, so engrossed in their conversation that it was possible to mistake it for the most interesting thing in the entire world. “Or maybe Yuuri here is simply immune to your charm, which would actually be hilarious.”

Yuuri decided to ignore that comment, partially because he did not trust his own voice if he were to discuss that subject, but mostly due to the impossibility of ever revealing the truth. What could he even say to something like that? That he had admired Viktor since the moment he had seen him? That he used to dream about him on the ice, perfect and otherworldly beautiful? That the awe had planted its roots in him so deeply that he was self-aware of them enough to admit to a celebrity crush he had experienced during his teenage years?

No, he was definitely _not_ immune to Viktor’s charm.

“That’s it, you’ve just singlehandedly ensured I’ll _never_ vote for Switzerland again—“

“You never do, _mon grand champion_.”

“—but at least I have an idea!”

“ _Mon dieu_ ,” Chris muttered his voice full of fondness clearly developed over the years of getting used to Nikiforov’s antics. It was that breathtaking level of familiarity Yuuri did not and would probably never have—and the realisation of that was unexpected and surprisingly painful. “What is it now?”

Viktor hummed something to himself—a light-hearted note that seemed to be more suitable to be sung during a bright summer day rather than on a winter night—as he reached for the laptop and gently put in on the floor. Them, without a word of warning, he plunged himself onto Yuuri’s and Christophe’s legs as if they were nothing but pillows.

“Caption ‘What should we watch next?’” he happily read aloud what he was typing, loud enough to drown out Chris’ stream of French expletives. Yuuri, on the other hand, did not have enough breath left to so much as whimper. “Hashtag ‘GPF finalists’, hashtag ‘winding down’, finish upload. I’m not tagging any of you, let them rack their brains about us.”

“’What should we watch next?’” Christophe incredulously repeated after him. “Viktor, we’re gonna get _so much_ porn.”

Viktor laughed at that, loudly and with reckless abandon, and in a split second Yuuri realised he would happily get addicted to the sound of his laughter. It made his stomach flutter and his head spin almost delightfully. “You’re underestimating my followers,” he berated mockingly, his eyes for a brief moment focused on the ceiling before a quiet sound of incoming notifications captured his attention again. “They’re pure and innocent sou—oh.”

“And what have your pure and innocent followers just surprised you with?” Chris gave a malicious chortle and grabbed his own phone from the bedside table, and for the first time in his life Yuuri regretted relying on Phichit to get Instagram updates.

“Someone suggested a compilation of... hamster videos,” Viktor explained, his wide eyes darting across the screen. Yuuri somehow resist the urge to groan, because there was only one person in the entire universe who could have done something so reckless. “Is that even a thing?”

“I’m so sorry about him,” he muttered and snatched his own phone from under the pillow. “He has absolutely _zero_ self-preservation when it comes to social media.”

Viktor glanced at him and quickly returned his gaze to the phone. “And by ‘him’ you mean this... Phi-something?” he asked and tapped the screen a few times. “Phichit?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri sighed and realised that the alcohol he had drunk allowed him to feel at least _slightly_ less embarrassed than he would have if he had been completely sober. Alas, it did not change the fact that he had absolutely no idea how to berate Phichit in a way that would actually result in long-lasting effects. Sometimes he suspected that the only possible way to do that was to take down the internet, because otherwise a day would come when that man would inadvertently ruin his reputation. “He’s my friend.”

“A friend as in ‘boyfriend’?” Chris playfully chimed in as if it were simultaneously the most important and the most hilarious topic in the world.

His question was so insane that Yuuri dropped his phone despite being in the middle of writing a message to his disaster of a roommate. “No!” he shrieked, his voice shrill and painful even to his own ears. “As in ‘best friend’! And roommate. And rinkmate. And...”

He broke off, overcome with a sudden wave of fondness welling inside him. It was easy to find words without thinking about the exact nature of the relationship that had to be labelled with them. Then the relationship itself came into the picture and blew the words away, scattering then into the winds of confusion and incomprehension, because how could he describe what Phichit meant to him? How could he take the story of uncertain beginnings, of solace during long nights of anxiety, of never-ending search of boundaries and of all-encompassing familiarity and diminish it all with simple words?

“He’s just... Phichit,” he finally said, realising that sometimes the lack of terms and definitions worked better than a surplus of them. And only a fleeting look of confusion and doubt that briefly appeared on Viktor’s face reminded him of their half-serious exchange of ‘just Yuuri’ and ‘just Viktor’ earlier on the beach. Then the moment passed and Viktor’s attention was focused on his phone again, allowing Yuuri to glance at him with freedom born of certainty that he would not be caught for a moment.

He would have at least that to take back to Detroit, those minute moments that somehow were less than he had expected, but much more than he had ever hoped for.

“So if it’s not Phichit,” Chris spoke again, furiously wriggling his legs from under Viktor, “then who warms your bed at nights?”

Yuuri choked on his own saliva.

“Another rinkmate, perhaps?” the Swiss went on, apparently oblivious to the reaction he was causing. “I always found them—“

“I’m single!” Yuuri yelled when a wave of panic swept over him and washed away what little of good mood he had managed to accumulate thanks to alcohol. He noticed a wary look Viktor was giving him, but decided to ignore it without delving into possible reasons for it. Even despite the awareness that it was simply Christophe’s typical blunt behaviour, the assumption behind his words still stung.

It brought out the pain he had managed to bury deep in his subconscious and the longing he had learnt to ignore.

“Now _that’s_ impossible,” Chris stated firmly after a moment of tense silence, “with your moves and—“

“Can we drop this subject?” Yuuri interrupted with ferocity he had not felt in a very long time. It was bitter and cold, just like those few nights he had spent on wishing for things he would probably never have. “Please?”

“Oh, look!” Viktor exclaimed all of a sudden, his voice loud enough to muffle Chris’ remark. He showed them his phone and Yuuri realised he was looking at Phichit’s Instagram gallery. “He posts pictures of you, Yuuri!”

 _Oh shit_ , he thought as dread swelled up within him. How compromising were Phichit’s photos anyway? Inexplicably, he could not even remember that at the moment.

“Look at these hamsters!” Viktor rambled on, browsing through the photos with evident glee. He seemed utterly enraptured by what he was seeing, and it made Chris regard him with exasperation so fond that it was easily noticeable to anyone who would be watching him. Yuuri averted his gaze, suddenly aware of witnessing something deeply private. “And your home rink, it’s lovely! Much bigger than mine!”

Viktor’s delighted expression brought an involuntary smile to Yuuri’s lips. It was almost like watching the sun appear on the sky after clouds had parted, similarly unexpected and heartwarming. He also acknowledged the possibility of being biased and therefore finding Viktor’s every action adorable and worth watching.

Then his phone went off and one glance at the caller’s name sent him scrambling out of the room, mumbling partially incomprehensible apologies to the other two skaters who watched his dramatic escape with befuddlement bordering on shock.

“Yuuri!” he heard as soon as he accepted the call, his ear immediately starting to hurt because of the sheer volume of that shriek.

It seemed that Phichit was worthy of becoming an urban legend, for talking about him long enough could apparently summon the man himself.

“You don’t need to shout, I can hear—“

“Yuuri, Viktor Nikiforov has liked one of my photos!” his roommate yelled again, his voice still almost too loud to be humanly possible. Yuuri sighed and realised that he was not even surprised.

Viktor seemed to be far too happy for a casual browsing. He just hoped—

“ _Yuuri!!!_ ” came another scream and Yuuri closed his eyes, anticipating the worst. “He followed me! Viktor fucking Nikiforov _followed_ me on Instagram! How did he even—Yuuri?”

“Phichit-kun?” he asked in return, his voice surprisingly steady and indifferent.

In a hindsight, keeping it that way was a mistake.

“Yuuri, you’re not freaking out,” Phichit pointed out in a tone that could no longer cause a temporary deafness. “You should be freaking out, why aren’t you?”

Yuuri’s breath hitched in his throat, making him let out a strangled groan he could not hold back. A part of him wanted to keep everything to himself due to the pure surrealism of his current situation, and another one was willing to beg his friend for help for the exact same reason. Not to mention that on top of it all he really wished he were given time to process everything that was happening, because he was certain that if thoughts and emotions he was being subjected to kept piling up, he was meant to snap like a string and collapse under the weight of his own mind sooner rather than later.

“Phichit-kun,” he managed to whisper after a while, “something happened, I—I was drunk and I don’t remember it, but... I don’t know what to do.”

A long moment of silence followed his words, in which Yuuri was able to hear his own heartbeat.

“Good something or bad something?” Phichit finally asked, his voice calm and almost professionally impersonal. Yuuri thought back to the beach and the feeling of Viktor’s hand on his waist, to the blue eyes shining with happiness and interest, to the smile that had ignited a fire that spread through his veins and set his skin aflame.

He thought back to the ordeal of the commemorative photo and recalled the same look of despair that appeared in Viktor’s eyes when he had pushed him away.

“Ah... both?” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But I think it’s mostly a good something. Or it can be? I—I don’t even know what to think about all this.”

He closed his eyes and leant against the wall, trying to find solace in that moment of solitude. He should have been on a plane to New York now, chasing the day as it was getting younger with each kilometre rather than still be in a hotel in the city that had brought him nothing but shame and pain. It was a fascinating feeling, to be aware of remnants of his dreams slipping through his fingers.

Of running away from the greatest dream of them all.

“Does it have something to do with the god of figure skating currently liking every single photo of you I have in my gallery?” Phichit asked, his voice ridiculously high because of the excitement that stole his breath. Yuuri involuntarily clutched his phone tighter, feeling his heart beating frantically in his chest like a caged bird, overwhelmed with disbelief and joy and almost clawing its way to freedom through years-old layers of self-imposed seclusion. He did not have enough time to examine that knowledge, for his mind halted at the memories of the conversation on the beach and refused to go further, unwilling to break what little he knew of Viktor’s reasons and intentions into even smaller pieces and look for the tiniest bit of sense in them.

Yuuri wondered why it was so impossible for him to simply believe in his words, to accept them as an indicator that someone might have been interested in him and at least _try_ to see where that path would lead him.

“He’s drunk,” he offered meekly. “He’s probably just fooling around.”

A choked squeak was Phichit’s answer – one surprisingly in sync with a muffled burst of laughter that could be heard even through the closed door. Yuuri could not identify whose it was and hesitantly realised he did not want to know.

“Well, liking’s just upgraded to commenting,” Phichit explained with glee and a subtle undertone that Yuuri had quickly learnt to associate with plotting. The realisation made him shudder, for once his friend decided to devote his attention to any of his dubiously safe plans, he was a force impossible to contain. And from what he found out in the last few hours, it was something that could never be set loose in Viktor’s vicinity. “Oh my, would you look at that? His comment is a blue heart!”

Yuuri’s face heated up, his lips involuntarily curling in a smile that simply _had_ to look ridiculous. “Drunk _and_ impulsive,” he muttered, but his voice sounded surprisingly soft even to his own ears. It was terrifying how quickly his heart began to hope for true intentions behind Nikiforov’s actions, how eagerly he was looking for smiles and that playful twinkle in his eyes, how desperately he wished for the night to never end despite the awareness of the anxiety ready to take over his thoughts at the same moment he sobered up a bit.

He tried to forcefully snuff his giddiness out with the memory of a few hours he had spent on convincing himself that it was nothing but impulsiveness on Viktor’s side; impulsiveness and perhaps a little bit of boredom. Discouraging his foolish hopes born of years of admiration and barely contained celebrity crush was all he could do try and hold back from accepting the hurricane that Viktor was and letting him uproot Yuuri’s entire life, leaving only splinters once everything would come to the inevitable end.

He wished he could muster enough courage to have a conversation with Viktor about this entire situation—hazy and uncertain as it was—when both of them were sober.

“Whatever’s going on, I want _details_ ,” Phichit’s voice brought his thoughts back to reality, “but you can compile them on the plane. I won’t keep you from the man of your dreams right now.”

Yuuri let out a heavy sigh, already imagining the never-ending teasing that awaited him in Detroit. “Phichit-kun, he’s not—“ he began and almost immediately broke off at the sudden thud from the room. “I need to go, I’ll... I’ll text you if it gets too much, okay?”

“Look at my baby,” his friend faked a sob that made Yuuri roll his eyes, “off to snatch the love of his life.”

“Phichit, _stop._ ”

“Go get him—“

Yuuri hung up without a second thought and closed his eyes for a moment, attempting to block out the post-drinking dizziness and doubts that threatened to crawl into his unexpectedly light heart. He was aware of riding on a temporary high of circumstances and tipsiness, destined to send him plummeting towards the ground with the speed of light in a fall impossible to prevent, but he could almost _see_ the glimpse of a dream more alluring than any of those he used to imagine.

He did want to snatch that dream despite its inevitable end already looming on the horizon.

And then a hand unexpectedly grabbing his butt made Yuuri jump, shriek, and blush – in that very order.

“Chris!” he yelled indignantly, glaring at the Swiss skater who somehow managed to sneak up on him and was now grinning like a madman. “What are you—“

“You spaced out,” Giacometti happily pointed out and draped his arm around Yuuri’s stiff shoulders, “and I wanted to say goodbye.”

It took a moment for Yuuri’s brain to process those words and when he did, he realised that the inevitable descent back into the bleakness of his existence started earlier than he expected. “You’re... leaving? Already?”

“I’ve got an early flight tomorrow which is most unfortunate, because you and Viktor together are simply _delightful_ to observe. But we’ll still have—“

“Where’s Viktor?”Yuuri blurted out before he could stop himself. Chris regarded him with an amused smile as if he was already expecting that question.

“Don’t worry, he wouldn’t leave without a farewell,” he said and squeezed Yuuri’s arm before releasing his hold on him. “He’s in the bathroom. All that vodka he drank has finally kicked in despite his stubborn claims that as a Russian he’s immune to it.”

Yuuri tried to picture a drunk Viktor Nikiforov and failed miserably. Then again, he would have never imagined Viktor pulling him in for a dance and gazed intently in his eyes, or Viktor practically giving him his heart, desperately holding  onto hopes of not getting in broken, or even Viktor laughing like crazy upon watching silly videos destined for college parties.

“We should take him to his room,” he suggested weakly, his mind reeling at the prospect of the greatest figure skater in the world passing out in his bathroom, or – what would be even worse – pulling off a spectacle akin to a drunk Katsuki.

Yuuri had once had to contain his drunk father and it was something he did not want to repeat.

“Oh, don’t worry, Viktor’s harmless when he’s drunk,” Chris said in an unmistakably dismissive tone. “Unlike you, he only sheds his clothes and falls asleep on the nearest flat surface he can find. Can you imagine it was once my kitchen counter?”

Yuuri nodded meekly in spite of being utterly incapable of creating a mental picture to those words. He attributed it to the fact of being acquainted merely with Viktor’s public persona, something he had never questioned until their wild endeavour on the beach. His behaviour and words still made absolutely no sense to him, not with the completely impossible implications his stubborn mind refused to accept no matter how hard he tried to convince himself to believe in them.

He needed Phichit to help him figure it all out.

“Oh,” Chris thoughtfully added after a while and Yuuri’s stomach dropped involuntarily at that sudden change of tone, “also if you get within a hand’s reach, he’ll think you’re his dog and will want to cuddle you.”

“That’s...” Yuuri stuttered, reminiscing countless night spent with Vicchan in his arms, those little moments full of quiet contentment and heartwarming comfort. And then he had to choke back tears that threatened to fall mere seconds after thinking about his dog. “That’s perfectly normal. I mean sleeping with a dog, it’s—“

“Oh _mon dieu_ , you’re a dog person,” Chris realised and almost doubled back in laughter. “Then I suppose you’ll be just fine.”

Yuuri’s heart skipped a beat and then sped up almost violently, making his head spin and his legs wobble at the idea of Viktor reaching out to embrace him and pull him closer, even if it would happen only because of a drunken haze and unintentional misunderstanding. And even if the unintentional drunken misunderstanding were all there was to this entire situation, even if it was unwise to hope for more once reality caught up with them, he unexpectedly found himself wishing for a chance to make the best of it. It was a world-shattering thought; one that spurred his mind to reminisce a hopeful glint in Viktor’s eyes and an uncertain smile blossoming on his face.

He wondered when denial was going to arrive to crush his prematurely and pointlessly optimistic expectations. For arrive it would, that was more than certain.

A hand cupping his cheek brought Yuuir’s thoughts back to the present and made him recoil instinctively, painfully colliding with the wall behind him. Chris chuckled at the reaction he elicited and put his hands into his pockets. “You’re spacing out again,” he admonished and glanced at the door to Yuuri’s room, “which I suppose is understandable in these circumstances. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, though.”

“You’d do _everything_ ,” Yuuri pointed out in a small voice, because the one thing he had learnt for sure after a few competitions he and Christophe had both been assigned to was that the Swiss unabashedly and with great enthusiasm flirted with everyone. They had never been close enough for Yuuri to become the object of that flirting, though, neither had he ever been inclined to pry into how far it went. The leash his anxiety kept him on was far too short to allow that much movement.

“I would,” Chris admitted, his grin wide and happy, but nowhere near Viktor’s blindingly bright one, “but only to my _moitié_.”

It took Yuuri a while to recall Viktor’s words about Giacometti’s boyfriend, but he suspected he would have reached the same conclusion on his own upon seeing that joyful smile that lit up Chris’ entire face and set his eyes aflame. His giddiness was overwhelming, almost oozing out in nearly palpable waves, and despite the lack of experience with relationships, Yuuri could recognise the thrill of the unknown unfolding and growing with each passing day. He wondered briefly what Viktor would look like if it were him standing here in the quiet corridor and musing about that one particular person that made his heart feel lighter and his blood run faster. Would he be just as radiant? Or maybe rather calm and warm, mindful of his image and therefore showing his affection only in the comfort of privacy?

The memory of the two of them on the beach sprang unbidden to life in his mind, his imagination willingly conjuring images of blue eyes and phantom feelings of a hand boldly burning its invisible imprint on his skin. It seemed he was rapidly developing a rather unsettling habit—that whenever he thought about Viktor, he would by default recall those few precious minutes he had never expected to experience, the fleeting moments painted in the faint winter light that engraved themselves into his very soul.

“What I’m saying is don’t worry,” Chris added after a while, “that Russian goof is all yours.”

A blush crept onto Yuuri’s face at that suggestion. “I’m sure it’s not...” he stammered, unsure of why exactly he was denying something he had heard from the man himself. “I’m not...”

Christophe’s expression shifted from glee to confusion, only to finally settle for a barely concealed disappointment. “Well, if ‘you’re not’,” he said slowly as if he had troubles wrapping his head around the concept, “then at least make it perfectly clear to him. Viktor’s—let’s just say he keeps telling me he’s fine, but he was happier last night than he’d been in a _very_ long time. I’d hate to see him getting his hopes up over nothing.”

“Chris, I...” Yuuri’s voice faltered when he realised how deeply personal was Giacometti’s revelation. It seemed to be unintended, the gravity of the implications that unexpectedly slipped into their conversation, and once again he was made aware of how much of an outsider he truly was, unintentionally privy to information he would never have known about in another circumstances. “I don’t remember anything, I’m sorry. Drunk me isn’t... me.”

“I know, Viktor told me. But that doesn't mean the two of you can’t try and see if you hit if off just as well when you’re both sober, does it?”

‘ _Just Yuuri_ ,’ Yuuri had said on the beach, unable to convey all of his insecurities in those two simple words, incapable of telling just how much baggage there was to him. ‘ _Just Viktor_ ,’ Viktor had answered to that, his voice heartbreakingly hopeful and full of vulnerability he had not managed to keep at bay. And even though Yuuri already knew that a conversation without alcohol cursing through their veins had been awkward, full of stumbling over words and misconceptions, and most likely deeply disappointing, he realised he did not want to let this chance slip through his fingers.

He blamed his impulsiveness on vodka.

“I’ll see how it goes,” he finally said, trying to pretend that it could be all right, that it could work out just like it did for other people, “but I can’t.. I can’t promise anything at this point.”

After all, he was not _that_ stupid to expect Viktor to stick around once his anxiety made itself known again. _No one_ in their right minds would ever stick around for that.

“That’s all I could ask for,” Christophe reassured him with a hesitant smile, blissfully unaware of the depths of self-doubt Yuuri was gradually sinking in. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around, so _à bientôt_ , my dear. It’s been a pleasure to finally witness you loosen up a bit.”

Yuuri forced a smile of his own and nodded despite the lingering dizziness. “Have a safe flight,” he said, choosing to forego a potential retort to Chris’ last comment. He was painfully aware of how unremarkable he was while sober, and even though having it pointed out so blatantly jabbed at his pride with a surprising force, bringing it up would change nothing. And when Chris finally sauntered off, whistling something ridiculously cheerful to himself, Yuuri froze with his hand on the doorknob, his already frantically beating heart gaining even more speed as initial wisps of panic began their triumphant return. He knew that going back inside meant taking the first step on the path that would undeniably lead to the end of this ridiculous day, to the inevitable realisations of holding invalid assumptions, and to the awareness that ‘just Viktor’ and ‘just Yuuri’ never stood a chance against the real world.

Was it foolish of him to crave at least a few precious moments to commit to memory before everything fell apart? He could not decide, could not even begin to think of other choices, so he went back in—and confronted with the sight of shirtless Viktor who was snoring softly on the bed, his arms spread wide and one of his legs dangling over the edge of the mattress, Yuuri realised that the real world made its comeback much sooner than he expected.

It was hot, embarrassing, and incredibly uncomfortable – and yet he knew he would never have given it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A handful of headcanons that were used in this chapter and might require further explanation:
> 
>   1. Yuuri doesn't have an Instagram account at this point and is more than happy to find all the news he needs using Phichit as a proxy.
>   2. Additionally, being a devoted fanboy, he speaks and reads Russian on the elementary level.
>   3. Chris and Viktor are bros. And there is no way they wouldn't watch Eurovision. That being said, imagine them both drunk and dancing to Verka Serdushka's _Dancing Lasha Tumbai_. You're welcome.
> 

> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://naamah-beherit.tumblr.com/) in case you'd like to say hello, file a complaint report, or witness occasional floods of photos of dogs and the outer space.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, because of course I forgot about this while posting chapter 3: Viktor's words about the commemorative photo in chapter 2 had been slightly altered to match the canonical information that he did know who Yuuri was.
> 
> Many thanks to **Vampiric_Charms** for reading this over for me. I'd send you a puppy if only it were possible.

Yuuri woke up with an armful of Russian.

Viktor was curled up against his side, his head on Yuuri’s chest and one arm wrapped tightly around Yuuri’s waist as if his dreaming mind convinced him that letting go would mean losing the only thing that anchored him to reality. It was a precious sight, that tousled ashen hair lacking its usual styling, and that perfect chiselled face reflecting nothing but serenity.

In Detroit, Yuuri had boarded a plane with a decade old dream held closely to his heart only to have it shattered and tossed at his feet as if it meant nothing. And maybe that was it – maybe he was destined to find out that some dreams could never come true, that aiming too high would only result in a significantly more painful fall. What he had _not_ expected of Sochi was to have an entirely new dream thrust right into his arms, the dream he would never have even dared to consider.

The warmth of Viktor’s body against his own combined with the lack of sleep were enough to temporary quieten Yuuri’s anxiety. It was something precious to experience, a state of mind he had almost forgotten. This blissful silence was overwhelming and exhilarating, but the proximity of another person caused his nerves to overload and send occasional shudders through his entire body, which at the same time was both heavy and feather-light, as though all the impulses he was feeling were yet too much for his brain to process.

If he could, he would freeze this moment and preserve it for eternity, for despite Viktor’s enthusiastically admitted interest Yuuri knew he was not going to get another morning such as this. Never again would he wake up with his arms loosely looped around Viktor’s shoulders, never again would Viktor’s breath skim almost imperceptibly over the skin of his neck, never again would Viktor mumble an incoherent Russian nonsense and snuggle even closer whilst slowly waking up.

Never again would Viktor murmur a quiet, heavily accented, “Mornin’,” into Yuuri’s collarbone before stretching like an overgrown cat, rolling off of him to prop himself on the elbow and look down at him with a surprisingly unreadable expression.

Yuuri gave him a small, shy smile in return and mirrored Viktor’s position, although he kept as much distance as his narrow bed allowed. If he did not, he would undoubtedly start over-thinking this situation as soon as he was lucid enough and that was something he desperately wanted to avoid. All he wished for was this one perfect memory to hold on to and carry into the future to relive whenever he would need to cheer himself up.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his eyes focused on the blurry outline of Viktor’s face. He did not risk turning around to retrieve his glasses from the bedside table; certain beyond doubt that the moment he glanced away, the man in front of him would disappear like the dream he had to be. “How’s... How are you feeling?”

Viktor shot him a smile that was far too wide and happy for such an early hour and the night of drinking that had preceded it. “Not bad,” he said, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Good even, because you’re still here.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes in exasperation, trying to stop a fond grin from forming on his face. Simple words should not have made him so elated, should not have caused his heart to pound and his face to flame up; especially when he had absolutely no idea what to make of this situation.

He would first have to know what he wanted to so much as even _begin_ to consider the possibilities.

“It’s _my_ room,” he said instead, his voice quiet like the winter morning that enveloped them both in this shard of time. “It’s not like I had anywhere else to go.”

Viktor hummed something non-committal. “In a hindsight, we should’ve gone to my room, I have a bigger bed,” he said after a moment and threaded fingers through his hair again. His face scrunched comically in what seemed to be utter disgust. “Ugh, I need a shower. Give me... fifteen minutes? Maybe twenty.”

He all but sprang to his feet and started putting on his clothes with energy Yuuri could only be envious of. Viktor picking discarded articles of clothing up off the floor was yet another thing he had never expected to see and now found himself determined to add it to his small but precious collection of glimpses of Viktor’s personality he had not known before and was only now learning about, much to his amazement and fondness that had barely had time to plant itself in his heart. It was Viktor looking for his white and red Olympic jacket that had at some point ended up rumpled and tossed under the armchair in the corner of the room, and it was Viktor with bed hair impossible to contain after a night of heavy sleep.

It was Viktor of hopeful eyes and sweet, private smiles, and Yuuri knew his heart was going to break the second he let him go, because what they had for this one morning was too precious to last and too fragile to develop.

“Twenty minutes,” Viktor repeated and left, only to peek into the room again not even a minute later. “You’re... _not_ leaving in twenty minutes, right?”

“I’ll be here until nine o’clock,” Yuuri reassured him, even though those words stirred a thought that up till now was lurking at the edge of his mind, dormant and only mildly disconcerting. It was the world outside creeping back in and reminding him mercilessly that this wonderful, unexpected moment was destined to end and when it did, he would once again become just a dime a dozen skater with no real success to be proud of, someone bland and boring and unable to keep Viktor’s attention.

‘Just Yuuri’ was merely a tangle of conflicted emotions he himself could not understand most of the time. And as much as he wanted to, how could he let Viktor get close just for him to see how much of a mess Yuuri truly was? Hell, he could barely live with himself when one of his numerous bad days came.

So he pushed those thoughts back as forcefully as he could and busied himself with showering and packing, whilst the promised twenty minutes passed and left only a rapidly growing disappointment in their wake. It mocked Yuuri’s faint hopes with viciousness that fed on the ever-present toxic conviction that he was not and would never be good enough, that if he let someone in—

An unexpectedly loud sound of an incoming message broke his swiftly deteriorating train of thought. He reached for the phone, expecting a message from Phichit or Celestino—only to see that it was Viktor asking if he wanted a cup of tea.

Yuuri smiled to himself and felt one of the knots of his emotions untangle itself, even if just for a moment.

 

* * *

 

“Enjoying the view?”

Viktor entered the room without knocking, two cardboard cups in his hands and a soft smile on his face. Yuuri accepted one of the cups and cradled it in both hands, letting it warm his palms that were so horribly cold because of nervousness. Viktor did not disappear; he returned just like he had said he would and was now standing nearby, keeping just enough distance for his presence to be comforting rather than oppressing.

“Not really,” Yuuri admitted after a moment, when conviction that he should not lie to him won a battle with a desire to keep his feelings to himself. “It’s not exactly the best time of my life.”

Viktor was silent for a while and in the end he sat on the floor, patting the carpet next to him in a way suggesting that he was not going to relent until Yuuri was sitting next to him.

“What happened to your free skate?” he asked a soon as he got his wish. Yuuri could not help but flinch at that question, feeling the festering wound on his pride open again. “Your short programme was really good... you were third after all, and I watched enough of your previous routines to know that you could’ve done better. _Should’ve_ done better.”

Yuuri choked on his tea when those revelations—spoken in a casual voice one would use to talk about the weather—hit him like a freight train and knocked his entire world out of its axis. He used to imagine a conversation such as this, with vague compliments and passing handshakes; back when he had optimistically considered himself capable of competing against Viktor. He had been successful in those dreams, perhaps even confident after taking his career to a satisfying culmination.

He turned out to be neither of those – he had flubbed his jumps, ruined the season his entire life had been leading to, and embarrassed himself, his coach, and his entire country, digging himself a hole seemingly impossible to climb out of. And yet despite all that, all he could think about at that precise moment was Viktor praising his short program and past performances. It was nowhere near what he had imagined and at the same time it was so much _more_.

“You...” Yuuri stuttered, looking at him with wide eyes, “you watched my routines?”

“Of course,” Viktor answered as if that question was offensive. “I like to know my competitors’ strong suits. And yesterday... well, I watched more because of your proposition.”

“What proposition?”

Viktor shot him an incredulous glance and let out a frustrated groan almost immediately after that. “Ah,” he said bitterly, “I forgot you’d forgotten. No matter, we’ll talk about it later. Tell me about your free skate now. Your step sequences are breathtaking, while inconsistent jumps can be worked on. It’s just a matter of training, but even without them you clearly have the skills to make the podium. So tell me, Yuuri; what happened?”

Yuuri fixed his gaze on the cup he was holding, trying to wrap his thoughts in words that would make sense. Nothing he could think of was appropriate to say, nothing was sufficient enough to justify his failure without making him sound like an immature child unable to focus on what was really important. He was a competitive figure skater participating in competitions on the international level—and he had fallen apart because of his dog and his own nerves. In that order.

He did not realise his hands were shaking until Viktor gently took away his cup and twined their fingers together. “I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly, clearly at a loss for words, “I don’t know... what did I do? I didn’t mean to make you—“

“It’s not you,” Yuuri interrupted, focusing on the warmth of the hand that fit so well in his. He had never thought it would be such a pleasant, comfortable feeling, to be held by someone he did not even know, and the novelty of that was the only thing that stopped him from scrambling away to regain the protective bubble of his personal space. He could not decide what to tell and what to keep to himself; could not think of a single reason that would not give off a vibe of a sulking, failed, badly prepared skater. If it were anyone else, he would say nothing just like he always did, foregoing pity and excuses for a few days of coming to terms with his failures. But it was _Viktor_ , who at the very least pretended to be interested, whom he could not bring himself to disappoint so soon and to lie to so openly, and if Yuuri had to torture himself in order not to hurt that man, then maybe he could pull it off long enough to actually make it believable. “It’s just exactly what happened. My own thoughts and nerves. And...” he broke off and thought back to that evening and Mari’s apologetic voice and the tears he had managed to hold back until he had hung up. “My dog died. I got the call after the short programme.”

Viktor gasped and breathed an almost inaudible, “Yuuri...”

“I haven’t been home in five years—I haven’t _seen_ him in five years,” Yuuri went on, slowly and quietly, feeling a sob that kept building up within him because the words would simply not stop. “I-I wasn’t there when he needed me and—“

All thoughts were lost when he found himself pulled into a tight embrace and for once did not care about boundaries and comfort that were just being trampled over. Nothing he was expecting happened – he was not being ridiculed, frowned upon or accused of immaturity, and for some reason it broke the already weak hold on his self-composure and bottled up emotions. Boundless grief crawled out of his heart and took control, drowning him under waves upon waves of regret and heartbreak. He cried over missed opportunities and time that passed beyond the point of turning back, over lost hopes and failed dreams—and not once Viktor let go, not even for a moment. Instead, he muttered something full of desperate frustration and started humming a song Yuuri did not recognise; a lovely, soothing note that grew ever louder the quieter his sobs became.

“I would’ve withdrawn,” Viktor said when Yuuri finally calmed down and subconsciously began to stiffen in his embrace. “If it were me, if Makka—I would’ve withdrawn, but you _skated_... _Bozhe moy_ , Yuuri, I made you watch dog videos yesterday! Why didn’t you say anything?!”

Yuuri pulled away and gathered enough courage to look into Viktor’s eyes. They were full of distress and that was completely unacceptable. His eyes should always be alight with unmarred happiness. “It’s okay,” he assured, hoping his voice would not falter. “Phichit always shows me dog videos when I have a bad day. It’s a routine at this point and I... I didn’t know how much I needed it.”

Viktor was intently staring at him for a long while and relaxed only when he apparently found what he was looking for on Yuuri’s face. “Good,” he said and picked up his cup again. “Dog vids are the best.”

“Yes. Yes, they are.”

They were quiet for a moment and although Yuuri was aware of glances thrown in his direction, he did not dare to steal his own. The awareness of having crossed too many self-imposed boundaries was already unnerving enough and he was determined not to add the incidental eye contact to the list. One occurrence of it per day seemed to be more than enough.

“Yuuri?” Viktor quietly asked when the silence between them began to feel uncomfortable. “Do you think I’d be a good coach?”

Yuuri blinked a few times and quelled the urge to turn around. “Why do you ask?” he said, staring at his hands instead. “Where is this coming from?”

“Oh, you know, I’m just thinking about possibilities for my future after the retirement.”

And this time he _did_ turn around, because that vague answer definitely did not sound like just one of many possibilities to consider, but rather hinted at much more complex thoughts.

“I don’t know,” he said, trying to shake off persistent images of a shared rink and the living legend guiding an unnamed, faceless skater to victory, and his heart twisted painfully at those thoughts, even though there was absolutely no reason for him to be bothered by that prospect. Whatever Viktor was going to do with his future—with _whoever_ he was going to share it—was no concern of his. “I think so, yes... I know it’s not an indicator, but you seemed to be genuinely interested in giving Yuri Plisetsky your input on his step sequences.”

He decided against mentioning the boy’s apparent inability to appreciate the critique when it was justified. It was not his place to comment on the relations binding together Yakov Feltsman’s motley crew of skaters.

“You heard that?” Viktor perked up, his eyes almost sparkling with enthusiasm.

“That’s why I was staring at you,” Yuuri admitted with only minimal hesitation, because he had already had a breakdown in front of this man and revealing the reason behind his shameless staring at the pair of Russians seemed almost laughably simple in comparison. “I heard what I thought was my name and... well, I should’ve known better.”

The enthusiasm died instantaneously and was seemingly replaced with stubborn determination, which was the last thing he saw before Viktor deliberately rested his forehead on Yuuri’s shoulder. “Yuuri,” he whined, putting a hand on Yuuri’s knee as if to stop his eventual flight, “I _really_ wanted that photo, you know?”

“You—you did?”

Viktor murmured his assent and leant back a bit—and all his fears of making the eye-contact went out of the window when Yuuri realised he would happily let himself drown in those blue eyes. No photograph had ever managed to capture their real hue, that of a clear sky on a winter day, somewhere high enough to pretend that there was no ground beneath one’s feet and where the sky could almost be touched.

“I did, and you turned on your heel and _left_ ,” Viktor accused in a forlorn voice. “And then you left after the banquet as well and probably would’ve left Sochi without a word if I hadn’t caught you in time.”

“I’m so—“

“Yuuri,” he continued in a low, almost purring tone that should have definitely been forbidden from use, “you’re not leaving this time, are you? My heart won’t survive it.”

He was not sure if Viktor knew what his voice was doing to Yuuri, but given that blinding smile he must have had at least a vague idea. And it was not even that sorrowful timbre that brought him disquiet and shame, and made him duck his head in a pitiful attempt to hide from Viktor’s challenging gaze. No, it was the words themselves that hurt more, their meaning and implication that Yuuri had unknowingly hurt him even before they were formally introduced. And as improbable as it was for Viktor

_(for anyone)_

to be genuinely interested in him, as impossible as it was for what they had to last and develop into something more than just a passing memory of a few breathtaking hours, he would never forgive himself for hurting this man even more.

Viktor was here with him in this second-rate hotel room in Sochi, with its small bed and a worn-out carpet rather than wherever he would have typically been after a competition. He was here, having brought two cups of tea even though he had not even had to do that, even though he had not had to return at all, and he kept his hand on Yuuri’s knee and his eyes on Yuuri’s face, and at that very moment it was so real that Yuuri could almost believe it would never end.

“I’ll... I’ll be...” he stammered, unsure of what to say. He _did_ have to leave, though, they both did, but he had a nagging suspicion that Viktor’s words held a second, practically obvious meaning that made his hesitant, impossible hopes bask in the thrill of being completely justified. “I could... uhm... text you sometimes? If that’s all right, of course. I wouldn’t want to imp—“

“Yuuri,” Viktor interrupted and squeezed his knee reassuringly. His eyes were shining happily and Yuuri was absolutely certain that it was the most beautiful sight to behold in the whole world. “I _do_ hope you’ll text me. I most certainly will, too. How could I not, especially now that I know you share my undying love for dog videos?”

He was smiling and _oh_ , what a smile it was, radiant and completely uninhibited, and it made Yuuri’s heart burst with admiration and a staggering need to capture that smile and keep it to himself for the rest of his life. There was a growing craving for more of it, of this privacy shared with another person, of warm smiles and wordless affection, of growing comfortable with each other and discovering what it meant not to be forced to face the world alone. It was new, heart-stopping and terrifying, and he had not suspected to ever discover such desires in himself. They meant the end of the comfortable shell he had constructed around himself over the years, they meant a never-ending struggle of meeting the other person halfway no matter how difficult it would be, and compromises when previously none were necessary. They meant a daily hard work that was never going to cease and could never be neglected, for such a negligence would hurt someone who did not deserve that.

He would have to confide in a stranger and allow them to know the Katsuki Yuuri that was never intended to be known to the world—the one with the glass heart and dreams too big and too easy to crush, the one with fears that overcame him more often than not—until the stranger would no longer be _that_ , but rather a permanent part of his life for what little good and the far greater amount of bad it had, someone whom he would be unwilling to let go of. The thought that this someone could be Viktor—that he so much as even _allowed_ himself to consider this miniscule possibility despite his common sense—was enough to send his mind reeling into a stone-cold denial.

Yuuri could not do that to him. He could not accept the possibility of subjecting Viktor to the darkest depths of his bad days filled with anxiety and self-doubt that would only result in dimming the joy in those blue eyes and chasing the smile away from his expressive face.

Viktor did not deserve to be put through it and yet Yuuri did not know if he would be able to keep his distance should Viktor's interest not waver, no matter how impossible that concept was. And as always Yuuri was focusing on an abstract, uncertain future, when the present day was far from over and could yet change everything that was to come.

“I...” he said and broke off, unsure what he truly wanted to say. He should close himself off, retreat to his unremarkable existence where Viktor was just a face on the wall, but if there were even the slightest chance of hurting him because of that choice, Yuuri could not bring himself to make it, even though the possible consequences would most likely be even worse. “I kind of... I was hoping for a—a photo too, but... uhm...”

Viktor’s face lit up, brightened by another incredibly wide smile—and how was it even possible for him to be so delighted because of Yuuri’s one, stuttered, unfinished sentence? How could it bring up in his eyes a glint happier than the one he showed to the rest of the world?

“Yes!” he exclaimed in a tone just as overjoyed as his expression. “Let’s fix it. Right now, _da_?”

And suddenly there was an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, a warm body pressed to his side, and a phone right in front of his face; and before he even realised what was going on, Viktor was already taking selfies with prowess that could almost put Phichit to shame. And that was probably what Yuuri was unable to stop himself from marvelling at – this seemingly boundless excitement and barely contained joy, this hurricane of warmth that hit him and swept his off his feet before he even registered what was going on. It felt so painstakingly... _real_ , so authentic and bare as though he was being given something unique and up till now kept hidden from the world, as if he were _worthy_ of seeing this version of Viktor.

Were there even multiple versions? Yuuri had always had troubles with identifying what was real and what was just an act, and sometimes he thought that perhaps it was simply circumstances that changed and affected what was being shown to the public. His own heart, vulnerable and right there in the open, could never be subjected to such a gradual reveal – for him it was always a complete withdrawal or an absolute exposure, with nothing in between that would shield him from the world and prevent the exhaustion caused by either of those possibilities.

It had taken warm lips pressed briefly to his cheek to shake him out of his thoughts; and what a reality check it was, with his face turning scarlet and his thoughts scattering helplessly. He was under the impression that the world had just changed and brought an end to his life as he knew it, as if a new one began right that second with Viktor Nikiforov planting the kiss onto his cheek and then looking at him with a gleam of fondness and mischief in his eyes.

Yuuri took a breath and shakily let it out, having absolutely nothing to say. His mind told him to flee, whereas his heart urged him to stay, and he just could _not_ decide which one of those options was better.

“You’re adorable when you’re blushing,” Viktor gave him a toothy grin and shifted closer, almost imperceptibly, but enough for his arm to brush against Yuuri’s. “Can I post this?”

Yuuri looked at the phone, making an effort not to lean any closer and trying to keep at least a shard of his personal space free of Viktor, who was slowly but surely creeping into every crack in his shell to intertwine himself with Yuuri’s thoughts and emotions – and if Yuuri let him, he would become an irreplaceable, immovable fixture.

So he did his best to focus his attention on the multitude of photos perfectly depicting his shocked face and Viktor’s gleaming eyes. The two of them could almost be mistaken for friends if someone were to judge only by the selfies alone and Yuuri _did_ wish it were true.

How he wished it could last.

“These are my favourites, but I won’t be posting any of them,” Viktor rambled on, oblivious to the impending sense of doom that crawled ever closer to Yuuri, making him want to stop the time and take shelter in this one moment before any kind of change inevitably happened. “I asked Chris and Yuri to send me theirs, because—Yuuri? What’s wrong?”

He did not know what his face looked like, but if even a fraction of terror and mortification he was feeling presented itself, it was not a surprise that Viktor asked that question in a voice so painfully full of concern.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered and hid his face in his hands. “I embarrassed you and I’m _so_ sorry.”

He held his breath when Viktor gently pried his hands away from his face and regarded him with a disarming amount of warm affection. “ _Radost' moya_ ,” he said with a soft smile and gestured at the phone, “look at this. I wasn’t embarrassed. I was _overjoyed_.”

Yuuri looked – _truly_ looked, rather than taking one glance and letting the panic take over his rational thoughts – and yes, even he could not deny that what had started with tentative glances and solitary steps resulted in a passionate dance that must have made them forget about the rest of the world at least for those moments they had spent in each other’s arms. It was nothing but photographs, a bunch of colourful pixels on a small screen, and yet those perfectly captured smiles and heated gazes stole his breath away and set something afire within him, leaving him flustered and uneasy—and all of a sudden Viktor’s previously inexplicable behaviour made perfect sense.

Yuuri almost wished he remembered that night.

“Yuuri?” he heard and looked up, because Viktor’s voice was unexpectedly quiet and hesitant. His expression changed as well, reflecting something reserved and almost desolate, and he realised that what he was seeing was intentional and Viktor could have easily put on one of his media-ready masks if only he had wanted to. And yet he chose not to and Yuuri was unsure what he should do with the awareness of being privy to something so deeply personal. “If you didn’t get drunk—if you didn’t dance into my life the way you did... would you talk to me at all?”

That question had the impact of a physical punch, knocking the air out of his lungs and leaving him breathless and ashamed, because there was only one possible answer to it and he could not bring himself to lie right in Viktor’s face.

“Maybe if I medalled,” he whispered, looking down at his clenched fists and whitened knuckles. “Other than that... I don’t think so.”

“Why?” Viktor asked and something in his voice—a tiny hint of a deeply hidden desperation—broke Yuuri’s heart.

“I’ve looked up to you since I was twelve years old,” he said and shrugged, trying to pretend it was just a random fact rather than admission of a life-changing milestone. He would probably be unable to so much as say a word if he were to talk about the depths of his adoration and what it meant to him. “I... I wanted to feel that I didn’t waste that inspiration.”

They were silent for a moment and once he realised Viktor was staring at the carpet with a furrowed brow and a thoughtful pout, Yuuri allowed himself to look at him and daydream that maybe, just _maybe_ , this tentative beginning would turn into something lasting and perhaps strong enough to be labelled as friendship. He did not delude himself that it would even pass that stage and became an even deeper, more personal relationship, for he seemed to innately incapable of developing them, but having a friend in Viktor Nikiforov...

Yes, that was something he would be willingly looking for.

“I’ll do it,” Viktor suddenly said and looked at him with a new gleam in his eyes, determined and full of excitement. “I accept your offer.”

“What offer?”

“We’ll have to work out details after Worlds, but—“

“ _Viktor_ ,” Yuuri interrupted with an increasing disquiet at being deliberately ignored, “what offer?”

A blinding smile was his only answer and in that moment he realised that Viktor Nikiforov was unstoppable once he fixated on a certain idea. He wished he knew what it was, though, because his drunk self could have just as well asked Viktor to marry him. He would be mortified at having irrevocably ruined his reputation, true, but if there were a possibility that his one-time teenage fantasy would be brought up, it would undeniably happen during the worst day of his life—and that was just what Sochi had given him.

“I’m glad you got drunk,” Viktor told him in a voice warm and sweet as honey, and Yuuri could almost believe that the spectacle he had made of himself and the question he had asked were not _that_ bad. He desperately wanted to think that everything he had been told since the day before was genuine, that his mind’s insistence on claiming that Viktor’s behaviour was nothing but a whim of boredom was only his own inability to accept good things whenever they happened to him.

A sudden knock saved Yuuri from coming up with a comment to Viktor’s happy remark, so he bolted towards the door, desperately hoping that whoever it was would not decide to barge in without asking. He doubted he would be able to explain what Viktor Nikiforov was doing in his room in the wee hours of the morning.

Yuuri took a deep breath, opened the door and found himself face to face with Celestino, who eyed him appraisingly. “You’re up, good,” he said and handed over two printed boarding passes. “These are your tickets, you’ll have five-hour long layover in Istanbul and two hours in New York. It was the best option I could find on such a short notice.”

“I know,” Yuuri nodded and carefully folded the pages, keeping his eyes on the ground. After all, he had faced the same difficulties in booking the flight from Sochi to Istanbul the day before, so he was mentally preparing himself for layovers much longer than just those few hours. “Thank you, coach.”

“Phichit will pick you up in Detroit, I already—“

“That’s...” Yuuri cut in as an overwhelming feeling of dread swelled up within him and made his hands shake.  He did not need that. He did _not_. “Coach, that’s unnecessary. I can—“

“Phichit will pick you up,” Celestino interrupted with a finality permeating his every word and Yuuri unwillingly let go of any further protest he might have wanted to say. “I want you both to work on your presentation components, because you’ll be practising jumps when I get back.”

The mere idea of it made Yuuri cringe. “Yes, coach,” he said thought gritted teeth, hoping his voice sounded at least remotely civilly. It did not, though, if he were to judge by the look on Celestino’s face.

“Do you need me to call you a taxi?” he asked, but this time without the urgency he showed moments ago. If anything, it turned out to be even worse.

“No, coach, there’s no need. I have it covered,” Yuuri said, forcing himself to swallow the hurt and bring forth all the politeness he could muster. He knew it was Celestino’s job to worry about details like taxis and tickets and myriads of other tiny little things, but still his mind furiously insisted that if he only managed to take care of even one of them on his own, maybe he would pick himself up and get back on track before helplessness and inertia overcame him.

“ _Bene, bene_ ,” Celestino muttered and reached out to squeeze his shoulder. Yuuri had to stop himself from recoiling in an instinctive reaction he managed to quench up till now. “Go grab a breakfast and get ready for your flight. I’ll see you on Friday, so don’t practise any jumps without my supervision!”

He could only nod and close the door as soon as his coach turned to leave, all the elation and hopeful but tentative optimism disappearing with him, making Yuuri’s heart heavy and resonating with grief and regret. He needed to train, to push himself as much as he could to even look himself in the eye again, because the alternative would make a crowning conclusion of his already monumental failure.

And yet, for the first time in his life, the thought of going back to the ice made him nauseous.

“He’s not coming with you?” Viktor’s quiet question made Yuuri jump and squeal, because he somehow managed to forget about him. “Why isn’t he coming back with you?”

Yuuri turned around and realised that the comfortable mood they had shared was broken and dispelled as if never there, and that the possibility of going back and sitting next to him, arms brushing and knees touching in a truly amazing breach of his personal boundaries, was no longer possible. Viktor’s joy and smile, and the pearly laugh that stirred up giddiness and overshadowed his worries—all of a sudden it was too much.

How could he ever think of himself as someone deserving all of that?

“He’s meeting Phichit’s potential sponsors,” he finally answered, made a move towards the bed and stopped abruptly mid-step, unsure what to do next. Viktor shot him a confused look and got to his feet, scooping both cups off the floor in the process. “Phichit-kun plans to make it to the Grand Prix next year and Celestino’s trying to finalise the deals whenever he has a chance to meet the sponsors in person. That’s why he wasn’t here yesterday. Uhm, because you asked about that and... yeah.”

Viktor approached him and looked intently into his eyes. “Phichit isn’t here, _you_ are,” he pointed out, “and sponsorship can be negotiated in the off-season. Why then—“

“I told you, he knew I could take care of myself,” Yuuri interrupted, probably too forcefully if a surprised and slightly hurt look that briefly appeared on Viktor’s face was any indicator. “I’m sorry, it’s—“

He broke off, bewildered and considerably flustered, because Viktor threw the empty cups into the rubbish bin, handed him his coat, and unceremoniously grabbed his hand. Yuuri was fairly certain that his face was the colour of Viktor’s Olympic jacket, which was apparently something he would have to grow accustomed to—but despite his obvious reaction the grip was strong and unfaltering, and it grew tighter every time he tried to tug his hand free.

“Let’s get a breakfast, I know a nice café nearby,” Viktor suggested merrily, his eyes once more full to the brim with affection that was almost too much to bear. “We still have two hours before you have to leave, so I intend to make the best of it.”

And just like that, right in the front of his door, Yuuri stopped and refused to budge. It earned him a concerned look that dug its teeth in his heart and _pulled_ , and it hurt as if his whole being split in two.

“I can’t do this,” he said, his voice full of desperation and regret. There they were, his old friends panic and self-deprecation crawling back from the shadows to engulf him in the only embrace he would ever intimately know. “Viktor, I...”

 _If ‘you’re not’,_ Christophe had told him, _then at least make it perfectly clear to him_.

He found himself wondering why his tentatively blossoming hopes had deserted him.

“I’m coming on too strong, aren’t I?” Viktor asked and forced a smile that could not fully conceal his disappointment. Then he looked down at their joined hands and let go as if Yuuri’s fingers were burning him. “Chris told me I tend to get over-excited and... well, I guess I can’t help that.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri said in a small voice, keeping his eyes firmly in the vicinity of Viktor’s sternum. He did not dare to look up at his face, afraid of what he might see and terrified of what could just as well not even be there at all. “I know I’m not—“

“Please don’t apologise,” Viktor cut him in and Yuuri could not help but glance at him, just in time to notice a sorrowful, lopsided smile that almost made him wrap his arms around Viktor and apologise for being the cause of that heartbroken expression.

It turned out that Yuuri’s life was composed of almosts.

“I... didn’t ask what you want us to be, did I?” Viktor went on and it took all of Yuuri’s willpower not to melt upon being labelled as ‘us’, as if there were a universe where Katsuki Yuuri and Viktor Nikiforov belonged together. “I just assumed— _wrongly_ , it seems.”

There was a vehement, ‘No!’ right at the tip of Yuuri’s tongue, ready to be spoken like a spell that would magically repair this fragile relationship that had barely started to develop between them and was already withering away before it had a chance to thrive. And even though he wanted to, even though Viktor’s forlorn gaze tore his heart to pieces, he could not bring himself to lie.

“It’s not that,” he said quietly, nervously fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “It’s... difficult for me. I told you I wasn’t good with people. I need time, I can’t just... _jump_ into something. You said you wanted to—to get to know me, so... Can we do that first? Get to know each other?”

Because when they did, Viktor was undoubtedly going to run away and Yuuri would not blame him. How could he, when he wanted to run away from himself?

“Yes,” Viktor said without a moment of deliberation, nodding with a surprising eagerness. “Of course. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

If Yuuri were having a better day, he would probably fall in love right on the spot, discarding caution and second thoughts in favour of uncertain future that might yet lead to something beautiful. But with the current state of his mind, he was infinitely grateful that Viktor backed off at least temporarily.

It meant he could enjoy his company a little bit longer.

“So, uhm...” he began and broke off, being at a complete loss what to say. What was even acceptable in such situations?

That was why he did not date anyone; all that hassle and effort were far too problematic for something that would only end up in a mutual disappointment.

“Would you like to eat that breakfast with me?” Viktor asked in a hopeful voice, saving him from the necessity of coming up with something to say. “I still don’t know if I can post a photo of us.”

“Oh, _that_ ,” Yuuri said meekly, once again tempted to yell, ‘No!’. “Yeah, all right, just... nothing _too_ embarrassing. And, uhm... will you tell me what I asked you about?”

Viktor’s eyes sparkled in a way Yuuri did not think was humanly possible. “How about I tell you everything over breakfast, _da_?” he asked and Yuuri, being Yuuri, of course agreed.

 

* * *

 

“You asked me to coach you,” had been Viktor’s last words to him, right before the taxi had arrived to take Yuuri away and set him out on his twenty four-hour long journey to Detroit. He had been mulling over those words during the two hours of waiting for boarding in Sochi, then on his two-hour long flight to Istanbul, and all those dreadful five hours of the layover he had spent holed up in a faraway corner of the departures terminal, staring at the runway with a heavy heart and unseeing eyes.

He was thinking about them even now, bundled in a blanket on a plane already on its cruising altitude, repeating them over and over in his head and cursing his drunken recklessness and a complete lack of self-control. And despite Viktor’s reassurances that he had not minded and his excited claims that he was looking forward to coaching - which became painfully obvious after the flood of text messages from Viktor he had been receiving ever since leaving Sochi - all Yuuri saw was a chain of bad decisions and stupid drunken mistakes that would only lead to tarnishing Viktor’s reputation.

He needed to fix this and had absolutely no idea where to begin. It was one thing to make a fool of himself and something else entirely to drag another person down with himself.

For what seemed to be the umpteenth time since morning, Yuuri could not resist looking at the photos Viktor had sent him during breakfast. It had been a quiet, awkward affair Viktor had spent solely on coercing him to register on Instagram, as if it had been a matter of life and death—and the utmost delight he had expressed when had finally been able to follow Yuuri was definitely worth caving in.

“ _Do svidaniya_ , Yuuri,” Viktor had said in front of the hotel, when there had been only the two of them, encapsulated in their own tiny bubble of space amidst the crowd and waiting for the taxi to arrive. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Then he had leapt for a hug, while Yuuri had extended his hand for a handshake, and after some fumbling and awkward glances they had settled for the latter. And if there had been a pang of disappointment and heartbroken longing in Viktor’s eyes as he had taken his hand, Yuuri tried his best to forget it. If he did not, guilt would most likely push him to make a decision he was not ready for and would undoubtedly regret later.

He did not want to regret _anything_ when Viktor was concerned – even if it meant ensuring that there would not be nothing to regret to begin with.

When Yuuri finally fell asleep after what seemed to be _years_ full of anguish and doubt and impossible choices, he dreamt about dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://naamah-beherit.tumblr.com/) in case you'd like to say hello, file a complaint report, or witness occasional floods of photos of dogs and the outer space.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few additional details that from now on will appear in the story:
> 
>   1. in one trivia or another it was stated that Leo de la Iglesia and Guang Hong Ji at some point trained with Yuuri and Phichit in the US, so this is why it has been and will be used
>   2. Viktor, being the romantic sap he is, decided that because Yuuri had made him smile, he would henceforth refer to him as "his joy"
> 


Stepping onto the ice was a torture.

Every move brought him memories of his failure, every sound was a prelude to hitting the ice over and over again, to failing and falling; falling without a moment of reprieve, without a second to catch a breath, without a possibility to think that maybe this time it would be different. But it was not and Yuuri – bruised, battered, and frustrated – was reminded how fickle a mistress the ice was, how unforgivable and shameless in bringing to light even the tiniest of weaknesses.

Nowadays he thought he was composed of nothing but weaknesses.

Detroit had welcomed him back with a heavy snowfall and a seemingly endless stream of questions from everyone Yuuri knew. And while those regarding his performance in Sochi had been painful but expected, those about Viktor had made him want to disappear, leaving behind only a pre-recorded message that yes, they had met and talked, and yes, he could get his rinkmates Viktor’s autograph if they ever met again. And if that promise was just a wishful thinking bordering on an outward lie, excited smiles on Leo’s and Guang-hong’s faces somehow absolved Yuuri of the guilt he felt after agreeing to that.

What his rinkmates did not know, though, was the fact that true to his word, Viktor was texting him every day since their departure from Sochi. It was not much, just a simple ‘ _Good morning_ ’ waiting for Yuuri when he woke up and a ‘ _Good night_ ’ arriving sometime in the afternoon, occasionally broken by trivial questions about each other’s wellbeing and whatever might have happened between their daily routine of greetings and farewells. And even though it was awkward and stilted, even though Yuuri more often than not cringed at his own ineptitude at keeping an interesting conversation, the exchange of messages and sporadically sent photos did not stop and somehow became something he was looking forward to. No matter how surrealistic and improbable it was, Viktor Nikiforov had seen him drunkenly make a fool of himself, then fumble for words, cry out five years’ worth of regrets and grief—and yet he had smiled and laughed and kept Yuuri close in the embrace too warm and comfortable to be real, he had agreed to relinquish the lead and give it all to Yuuri despite the outcome being so drastically different from what he had wanted, and then he had stubbornly persisted in keeping in touch.

And that quiet presence, the awareness of a chance that this tentative, awkward contact was something Viktor truly wanted in his life, made Yuuri think that maybe there was a minuscule chance that he would not have to give it up. That maybe he could have it, this beautiful, terrifying thing with so many possibilities, so fragile and real and one he had always been too afraid to imagine. He was still torn between a desperate hope for it to grow and an equally overwhelming conviction that he was not good enough, that Viktor was better off with someone who was everything Yuuri was not; someone mentally stable, beautiful, and wonderful just like Viktor himself.

Perhaps he would never be good enough; perhaps it was all just a delirious dream destined to disappear in the morning light, but Yuuri dared to keep it alive even if just for a while, and its continued existence was enough to make it easier to get up after yet another night spent on wondering about what-ifs. Even if keeping it all up meant nothing but a broken heart when everything undoubtedly came to an end, Yuuri realised that maybe for once it would be worth to stop himself from running away.

Which was why he was sitting on a bench at the rink, feeling pain pulse in his legs, and tightly clutching the phone in his hand for the past few minutes, unsure if calling Viktor was even acceptable when they were nothing more than acquaintances. It was evening in Saint Petersburg, he knew that – he had already memorised the time difference – and he had an extensive list of reasons _against_ calling—and only one _for_ it.

He could not bear to so much as _look_ at the thing he loved most and without it, this seed of possibilities would remain just that – a chance never taken.

Yuuri squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the call button, feeling his heart speed up and his throat tighten in panic. And with each signal he vowed that it would be the last one, that he would end the call and go back to his own Friday afternoon full of falls and disappointment once he could force himself to return to the ice and—

“Yuuri?”

He let out a strangled sigh upon his hearing his name spoken in a surprised, quiet voice that was so unlike Viktor. If he did not know better, he would call that tone hesitant and perhaps a little bit hopeful—and maybe that was what finally coerced him to say an equally quiet and tentative, “Hi.”

He heard a rustle and a groan, followed by a few soft words in Russian, and his mind immediately conjured up images of Viktor apologising to a faceless someone that it was nothing important and would only take a moment. It brought him a perversely hurtful kind of relief, even though tinged with disappointment, because it meant that he did not have to fight himself to reply to every message and remind himself that it depended on him as well to let tiny, precious thing between them blossom into something grand. Truth be told, it was typical that real life proved this crazy dream too good to be true, for believing that he would ever—

“Hey,” Viktor’s voice, happy and breathless, brought his attention back to the call. Yuuri’s heart, already beating far too fast than it should, twisted painfully at the thought of the multitude of Viktor’s laughs and sighs and sweet little nothings whispered on the cusp of dawn – all the things he could never have.

“I’m...” he began with uncertainty he was unable to disguise as mere indifference. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, I just... I didn’t think, I’m so sorry.”

“Yuuri, you’re not interrupting anything,” Viktor rushed in with reassurance sounding so genuine that it almost made Yuuri regret his earlier conclusion based on nothing but a sound and a few words he had not understood. “I’m happy you called. I really am.”

And just like that, against all odds and common sense, the hope that was dead sprang back to life, warm and fragile and apparently surprisingly resilient. It was a terrifying thought, truly, that someone could have so much power over his expectations and desires.

“But I heard you talking to someone,” he blurted out recklessly, unable to take those stupid words back. He had no right to ask, no right to be privy to the knowledge of what Viktor Nikiforov was doing on a Friday evening. After all, he was just Yuuri trying to make the best of his once-in-a-lifetime chance. “So please, don’t let me keep you—”

“Oh, _that_ ,” Viktor interrupted before Yuuri managed to bid him a hasty farewell, “that was Makkachin. He fell asleep on top of me, but I had to move him because my phone was dying and I couldn’t reach the charger. He’s so grumpy when I wake him up, you know? Like a big baby.”

Yuuri’s roaring thoughts came to an abrupt halt, violently enough to force the anxiety to retreat and allow a hopeful relief to bloom. Why did he reject that man again?

He could not remember.

“Just like his owner,” he said, feeling his lips stretch in a smile, the first in what seemed to be eternity. It was the kind of remark he would throw at Phichit, but his exhausted mind did not even protest at this point. Maybe it was the comfort of a phone call and the lack of eye contact that allowed him to act much more freely than he typically would, or maybe the memory of Viktor’s joy when Yuuri had accepted his silliness without a blink an eye – whatever the cause, he let go of his reservations and found himself feeling lightheaded.

“Yuuri!” he heard Viktor gasp and somehow could picture him perfectly, from the curl of his fringe to the mouth open wide in shock. “You hurt me! I’ll have you know that I’m perfectly charming in the mornings if only I’m not hungover. Which was exactly what happened in Sochi.”

“You did seem quite energetic despite the hangover,” Yuuri mused without thinking, remembering Viktor’s languid moves and voice hoarse with sleep that had quickly changed into frantic haste and left him wishing for the moment to last at least a little longer.

Viktor chuckled at that, his voice low. “Well, I couldn’t exactly woo you while having bed head and wearing a t-shirt that smelt like vodka, could I?” he asked and Yuuri’s mind reeled, torn between desire to pick up the teasing and reply in kind and the embarrassment that grew with every word. He somehow accepted how openly Viktor flirted with him, no matter how insane that thought was, but there was no way he would reciprocate.

“No one even uses that word anymore,” he chided him instead, opting for an easy way out. The easy way at least did not involve second-guessing his decision to keep Viktor at an arm’s length in case it did not work out between them.

And just as well in case it _did_.

“I just did!” Viktor gleefully chirped, joy in his voice unmistakable and almost intoxicating. “But if you don’t like it, then I guess I can settle for ‘sweep you off your feet’. How does _that_ sound?”

“Viktor...” Yuuri said in a quiet voice, feeling his face heat up all the way to his neck. A small part of his mind wanted to say that Viktor had never even had to make an effort to sweep him off his feet—and could it be that Viktor would blush at those words? Would he get flustered, or simply smirk and brush it off as a pitiful excuse for flirting?

Yuuri wished he were brave enough to try.

“I’m getting ahead of myself again, aren’t I?” Viktor asked after a while and let out a dry chuckle—and Yuuri, intimately acquainted with self-deprecation, recognised it from the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. “My apologies, I remember what you told me, I really do, I just...”

Yuuri bit his own tongue to stop himself from declaring that he changed his mind. If he did that, if he allowed himself to dive headfirst into something he was not ready for, he would wake up the following day and run away from himself and the assault of his own thoughts; panicked, torn, and drowning in regrets.

“I’m just really happy you called,” Viktor finally said in a hushed tone, one Yuuri immediately associated with a quiet autumn evening full of soft blankets and warm tea, and tinged with a comfort of familiarity. And for the first time in his life he thought that maybe one day it was something within his reach. “I wanted to do that myself, but I was afraid it would be too much. _I_ am too much sometimes, or so I’ve been told, and you wanted us to get to know each other first, so I—”

“It’s okay,” Yuuri quickly cut in, taking advantage of Viktor’s momentary hesitation. “I wouldn’t—I’d pick up, that’s for sure. And you’re not too much. At least not now. But...”

“But?”

“I’m—I’m not much. At all.”

There was a moment of silence on Viktor’s end, broken only by a distant chatter of Yuuri’s rinkmates. He had learnt to mute them all into nothing but white noise that was always there in the background; mostly harmless, but turning into a torture on worse days, a deafening crescendo of voices that scraped his ears and stripped him off his refuge on the ice. The noise was bearable at the moment, presumably because the refuge for the first time in his life brought him more distress than people usually did.

“Yuuri,” Viktor began with hesitation; his words were careful and measured as if he considered each one of them before saying it. “I know we hardly know each other and we’ve barely even talked, but I really don’t think you’re not much. So if there’s anything you’d like to talk about, anything I could help you with... please know that I’m here, willing to listen. At least... at least consider that? If you want, of course.”

Logically speaking, Yuuri knew Viktor’s intentions and goal, because they had been made absolutely clear since the very beginning. Viktor had accentuated them with heated gazes and freely given touches that Yuuri could still feel at times, half-real phantoms that haunted him and weakened his resolve. And yet there was no logic in his thoughts filled with insecurity and lack of confidence; there was no logic in the ever-present conviction that he was never going to be good enough, and that constant cognitive dissonance grew in strength every day until he could think of nothing except Viktor’s eyes and smile and hope, and then inevitably face the logical conclusion that he could never deserve everything Viktor was offering him.

It was a perpetual war between Yuuri’s mind and heart, and no matter which one would emerge victorious, Yuuri was undeniably going to lose. The only question was how much.

“I,” he said and choked, fully aware that he might end up ripping his soul apart and presenting it to Viktor as both the excuse for his actions and the barely acknowledged plea for help. And if all he received in return was disappointment he had been expecting since Sochi, at least for the first time in his life, Katsuki Yuuri was not going to shy away from the possibility that had come to him, begging for attention and a chance to blossom. “I can’t... I can’t go back to the ice. I can’t even look at it, because when I do, the only thing I can think about is Sochi. I fail and fall and fail again, and how can I redeem myself if I cannot go through my own programmes? I fell on a single axel today. _A single axel_. It hasn’t happened since I was sixteen years old.”

There was a moment of silence in which he could hear faint sounds of a city buzzing with life beyond the walls and windows of Viktor’s flat. It was so far away, both literally and figuratively, and so, _so_ out of his reach.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to skate against you,” he said in a small voice that could almost be mistaken for a whimper. Viktor drew a sharp breath, but did not say a single word. “To share the podium with you. And then I’d fucked up my only chance. And _then_ I fucked up even more, because you said all those impossible things about me, about what we’d done and the way you’d felt about—about that, and somehow it’s even worse, because I can’t remember a thing about what must have been the best night of my life. And...” he broke off for a moment, feeling his frustration somehow diminish with each word, which made him eerily calm, “and I’ll probably hate myself tomorrow for telling you all that, but I’m too tired to care.”

“We’ll dance again after Worlds,” Viktor stated in a breathless, shaken voice. “We’ll do it all again and this time you’ll remember everything.”

Yuuri almost smiled at his conviction. “I won’t make it to Worlds,” he whispered, because unlike Viktor—Viktor and his unreal expectations, Viktor and his attachment to the version of Yuuri that did not exist—he was convinced of exactly _that_. “Not with the way I feel about my programmes. Especially not with how I skate them these days.”

“Then change the programmes.”

“Easy for you to say,” he snapped before he could control his own mouth, and once the words were out it was too late to apologise. “I don’t have the music for new routines. Even if I did, it’s only a week until Nationals and I don’t even have a choreographer.”

Viktor fell silent again, but Yuuri heard him frantically type something on a computer. He was tempted to ask about something— _anything—_ that would steer the discussion away from his inevitable failure. Was it too much to hope that this would not be their last conversation? Most likely, he realised with a surprisingly painful jab of sorrow that soured his already bad mood. He already ran his mouth too much. Perhaps it was for the best, though; perhaps Viktor should realise that Yuuri he thought he knew was nothing but an ephemeral creature born of champagne and too many regrets drowned in it, and that he really ought to let go of his misplaced expectations before he put up a fragile construction made of hope around them.

And if it left Yuuri with nothing but posters, a few photographs, and a phone number he would never use again, then so be it.

“The interpretation,” Viktor said so suddenly that Yuuri almost jumped off the bench. “Your theme this year is ‘Dream’, right?”

“Yes, but how do you—”

“What’s the story behind your programmes?”

 _You_ , Yuuri thought, but could hardly say it. “It’s about finding and chasing the dream in the short and achieving it in the free,” he said instead, trying to make it sound impersonal.

“That’s _definitely_ not what you should be skating about after Sochi,” Viktor stated with determination worthy of a champion he was. “You said it yourself that you couldn’t connect to them anymore. Change the interpretation. Make it worthwhile. Make it yours again.”

“That’s...” Yuuri started and let his voice trail away before he finished his initial, careless thought. ‘ _That’s absurd_ ,’ he wanted to say. ‘ _That’s impossible_ ,’ he considered, fuelled by certainty that only Viktor could do the impossible. But then he recalled that if someone had told him a week ago that he would pour his worries and hurt onto Viktor Nikiforov, he would have immediately brushed it off as impossible as well, so maybe truly impossible was only what he convinced himself of. “That actually isn’t a bad idea.”

“Wow,” Viktor chuckled and that sound went straight to Yuuri’s gut, causing a swarm of butterflies flutter madly in his stomach. If it were the last sound he heard in his life, he would die a happy man. “Thank you for finding my first act of coaching you acceptable.”

And just like that Yuuri’s hesitantly rising joy turned to dread. “V-viktor, you can’t—” he stammered, “I’m not—”

“If you were planning to say that you weren’t good enough,” Viktor interrupted angrily, “I swear to Mother Russia I’ll fly to Detroit and stay as long as I need to convince you otherwise. Is that clear?”

Yuuri froze for a moment, without a move or breath, because at that precise moment he realised that his variety of teenage fantasies starring Viktor Nikiforov had been missing the one including stern words spoken with the Russian accent – and that realisation went straight to his groin with an embarrassing speed.

“Yuuri? Are you there?”

“ _Hai!_ ”, he yelled and groaned, both at his idiotic reaction and an equally stupid answer. “I mean yes, I’m here. You don’t... don’t need to come.”

 _Please do come_ , he wanted to beg instead, but had enough of self-preservation to not make the biggest fool of himself.

“That’s a pity,” Viktor murmured, his voice low and full of emotions Yuuri did not want to decipher. “And here I thought I’d see you before Worlds.”

Yuuri let out a heavy sigh and lay down on the bench, rubbing his face with a cold hand and letting the cool air clear his temporarily clouded head. “Then you should prepare yourself for a disappointment, because I won’t—”

“Yuuri,” Viktor interrupted him again, softly this time, and Yuuri realised that the interviews he had watched did not prepare him for hearing Nikiforov’s voice in a regular conversation, with its ever-changing cadence and myriads of emotions to which a simple phone call could do no justice. “I believe in you. Please remember that.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Yuuri confessed, because if it was the day for realising and revealing humiliating truths about himself, then he could just as well go all the way towards complete mortification. How Viktor managed to bear with him for so long was beyond his imagination.

“It seems I already know what we’ll be working on as a priority. Unless you really don’t want me as your coach and I’m just getting ahead of myself again? I am, aren’t I?”

It was that tone again, the one Yuuri had heard him speak in after the suggestion that they should be friends for the time being. It was the tone that betrayed disappointment and lost hopes.

It was the voice of a man rejected once again.

“I _do_ want you to coach me,” he rushed in, even though it was probably too late for reassurances. “I just... I don’t want you to ruin your career over an impulsive request of a drunk idiot.”

“Oh, Yuuri,” Viktor whispered without missing a beat, “your impulsive request is the best thing that’s happened to me in _years_.”

Yuuri knew he should object, swallow his pride and think about what that could mean for both of them, that he would forever be remembered as the man who dragged Viktor Nikiforov down with him. But was it selfish to believe that someone could want him, could see a potential in him even though he was unable to do that himself—and that this someone was the man who ruled over his heart and life for years?

“Viktor,” he said in an equally hushed whisper, feeling it break under the weight of sobs he forced himself to hold back, “I... I’m...”

“Are you crying?” he heard panic in Viktor’s voice. “ _Bozhe_ , please don’t cry, I don’t know what to do when people are crying in front of me.”

Yuuri snickered as sheer fondness swelled in his heart and threatened to consume his rational thoughts. “I’m not...” he began and cleared his throat to steady his voice when it wavered. “It’s not like you could’ve done anything, being on the other side of the Atlantic and all.”

“Thank you for a geography lesson, Mr Smartass, you’ve just changed my life,” Viktor retorted happily like the cheeky bastard he was. “Let it be known that I have a few plane tickets to use, all waiting for the right moment. Frequent flyer privileges, _radost’ moya_.”

“Is that so?” Yuuri laughed and looked at the currently deserted rink. He did not realise they were talking for _so_ long that his rinkmates had finished practice, but then again he always was the first to come and the last to leave. At least they had given him a wide berth this afternoon for which he was immensely grateful, because he was starting to run out of excuses for whenever they asked him to go out with them after practice. “It would be a pity to let them go to waste.”

“Definitely,” Viktor agreed and something in his tone made Yuuri giddy, as though there really was a possibility that he would one day arrive in Detroit. It was a stupid, irresponsible, irresistible thought and Yuuri fell in love with it in a matter of seconds. “I shall put them to good use next year.”

Yuuri only hummed at that, his thoughts more and more straying towards the ice. If it really was all about the interpretation, then what he could possibly skate about now that all his dreams had fallen to pieces? Viktor used to be his dream, the ultimate career goal to reach; one he was working on ever since he had been old enough to plan his future. He had never contemplated more than a vague image of the podium shared after a competition, had never been brave enough to envision anything beyond that; too afraid and too rational to hope for anything else.

And the real life had given him a thing precious beyond all hope and imagination.

“Viktor?” he asked timidly, even though there was no one around to overhear him.

“ _Da?_ ” came an equally soft response, as if they both expected anything louder than a whisper to shatter the moment beyond repair.

“Thank you,” Yuuri said and meant it with all his heart, even thought he could not so much as fathom what it entailed; if it was just the past he thanked for, or perhaps a terrifying, uncertain future that could – but did not have to – involve them both.

“Anytime, _radost’ moya_.”

They fell silent and for the first time in his life, Yuuri did not deem it uncomfortable. It was just the two of them and thousands of kilometres between them, the distance that for a moment seemed to be irrelevant and almost non-existent. And if a moment was all he could have, if nothing else came out of this ridiculous, beautiful prelude to what might yet become something wonderful in the future, then so be it, because that moment was already so much more than he had ever dreamt of.

“Can I call tomorrow?” Viktor finally asked and his voice was quiet, uncertain, and full of hope he barely allowed himself to have.

“Yes. _Yes_ , please.”

He wondered if his answer put a smile on Viktor’s face, radiant and uninhibited just like those he had been giving him in Sochi; he wondered if Viktor felt just as much joy as he did, even though what they had was still so new and fragile and more often than not absolutely stupefying because of its sheer impossibility.

“Then I’ll have even more to look forward to,” Viktor murmured in a soft, warm tone and if someone asked Yuuri about it, he would say that this was what happiness sounded like. And if it was something he brought forth with a single word, he could do anything. “Good night, Yuuri.”

“Good night, Viktor,” Yuuri said and thought that he would gladly wish him good night every day for the rest of his life.

 _Dreams_ , he thought, putting the phone aside and approaching the ice. They used to be about his success and Viktor; abstract, perfect, untouchable Viktor the legend, the king of the ice, the symbol to be put on a pedestal, but Yuuri refused to yearn for a non-existing image any longer.

He took a deep breath and stepped onto the ice.

 

* * *

 

Hours later – much, much later than it should have been – he came back to his dorm room battered, bruised, and exhausted, looked at his collection of posters and realised that it was not the man he knew.

And whilst it was clearly an exaggeration to claim to know someone after two days, a phone call, and a couple of texts, something incredibly vocal and stubborn insisted that he was aware at least of that side of Viktor which manifested as the man who had laughed with abandon, who had taken Yuuri’s hand and danced with him on the beach, who had felt comfortable enough to get drunk and later snuggle up to him. He wanted all that, he realised in a terrifying flash of self-awareness; he wanted to hear Viktor laugh and talk nonsense, to act freely around him in a way no one in the whole wide world would see. It was a staggering realisation, one that brought him shame and confusion, because he had already rejected that once, and partially still did not feel ready to accept that it was his decision that would allow it all to happen.

He did not know if he would ever be ready.

“Yuuri, what—” Phichit broke off in a strangled choke when he looked up from his phone and saw that Yuuri reached out, decisively took down the first poster and moved on to the next one without a moment of hesitation.

“I can’t look at them anymore,” he answered, which was mostly true. He had already decided to print one of the photos Viktor had sent him, frame it and put it on his desk as a constant reminder that he had not hallucinated those two days after giving himself alcohol poisoning at the banquet. “It’s... I just can’t.”

“Yuuri...” Phichit’s voice trailed away, conflicted and tentative as if he expected Yuuri to explode any minute. “I know you didn’t want to talk, but _this_ is drastic even for you. Come on, man, spill the story. I can see it’s eating you alive.”

Yuuri plopped down onto his bed and looked at the posters in his hands, at Viktor’s fake smiles and dead eyes.

“Yuuri? What happened?”

“This man,” he said, showing Phichit the poster of the man whose face plagued his thought for the half of his life. “I seduced _this man_ in Sochi.”

“I kind of figured that out,” his friend admitted slowly. He was unexpectedly calm and the only explanation for his behaviour of which Yuuri could think was that he had somehow got used to the idea over the last week. “His not-so-subtle rampage through my Insta gave it away.”

“And then I friendzoned him.”

Phichit blinked a few times, opened his mouth, closed it, and opened again. And then he shrieked, “You did _WHAT?!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://naamah-beherit.tumblr.com/) in case you'd like to say hello, file a complaint report, or witness occasional floods of photos of dogs and the outer space.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by [Skowronek](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Skowronek) \- thank you! ♥

Yuuri had come to America with pockets full of dreams, a heart heavy with longing, and a routine he stuck to whenever he made himself a cup of green tea.

He would pour water onto the leaves and watch it gain colour and aroma, and then would proceed to drink it in utmost, unbreakable silence. He had always done it at home in the evenings when the onsen had been quiet and empty. Vicchan pressed to his leg, he  sat on the porch and watched the sunset whilst cradling a warm cup in his hands chilled to the bone after hours spent at the rink. It  brought him comfort – this small indulgence after gruelling practice, after pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion when the glare of the ice and a throbbing pain in his legs and feet had been all he could think about. He used to drink it while being sad and anxious, and while being happy too; occasionally, rarely, when days had been better, when he had been feeling warm and content and his thoughts had been mercifully quiet.

An impersonal college dormitory room became his porch in the US and all he had of Vicchan with him was a photograph, but the routine remained unchanged – tea and quietness and a few minutes to himself. Phichit had quickly learnt not to disturb him, which was probably why their friendship had a chance to flourish.

Even now he didn’t utter a sound, although Yuuri could tell how much he wanted to, having gone through the gallery on Yuuri’s phone a few times already. Him and Viktor dancing, Viktor by his side, Viktor’s arm around his shoulders and Viktor’s lips pressed to his cheek. Viktor’s smile and joy frozen in a moment.

Yuuri’s stomach twisted at the thought about it.

He sighed, put away the empty cup and looked at Phichit, who practically pounced on him and shoved the phone back into his hands.

“Okay,” he whispered as if they were exchanging secrets in the middle of a crowded room rather than having a week-overdue conversation in their room, “tell me exactly what happened.”

Yuuri would not mind knowing that himself. Maybe if he remembered, he would believe he had shown Viktor more than just his drunken idiocy.

“Well,” he began hesitantly and glanced down at the phone and the last photo Viktor had taken. He could almost, _almost_ feel the ghost of that kiss on his cheek. “I’d got drunk and it kind of... snowballed from there. And then Viktor found me in the morning and didn’t leave despite... everything, really.”

No matter how many times he thought about it, no matter how hard he tried to accept it every day that had passed since his return from Sochi, Viktor’s interest still seemed surreal.

“Did he push you into something you weren’t comfortable with?”

“No, of course he didn’t,” he rushed to assure his friend because the last thing he wanted to witness was Viktor’s online reputation ruined over wrong assumptions and Phichit was fully capable of doing just that. “He was...” _sweet_ , he almost said, smiling to himself at the memories he had never expected to make, “a perfect gentleman.”

“And... did he complain when you asked to take things slow?”

“No!” Yuuri practically yelled because the idea was ridiculous. Even though he was not whom Viktor had been expecting, even though they had parted as mere acquaintances with a chance for friendship ahead of them, not once did he hear a word of complaint. He was a disappointment – he was certain of that – but for all their infrequent conversations, Viktor never treated him without respect. “He never... he didn’t.”

Phichit patted him on the knee as a broad grin appeared on his face. “Then, my friend, you didn’t friendzone him. You simply told him what you’re comfortable with and he went with it. It’s a basic human decency and as your best friend, I approve of your husband-to-be.”

Yuuri’s face heated up in what must have been a truly remarkable blush. “That’s... that’s not...” he stuttered in indignation and groaned as Phichit’s timely delivered evil chuckle did nothing to alleviate his embarrassment. “He’s not— _that_. He’ll never be...” _my husband_ , his treacherous mind whispered despite his valiant efforts to keep it in check. “He’ll never be that.”

“Why not?”

“Because...” he began and stopped himself from saying ‘he’s Viktor Nikiforov’. He had already said that and a desolate look in Viktor’s eyes made him swear to himself to never use that argument again. “Because he’ll realise it’s too much trouble to—”

“If you’re planning to finish that sentence with _put up with me_ ,” Phichit interrupted and his voice held all the righteous fury of the best friend scorned, “I swear I’ll let my babies chew on the laces of your skates _and_ I’ll also sent Viktor the video.”

“What video?” Yuuri asked, his stomach twisting painfully in worry. Phichit had collected a truly staggering number of compromising videos over the years they knew each other.

“ _The_ video,” he replied as if that clarified anything. Yuuri’s face must have reflected his confusion because Phichit let out a heavy and theatrically exasperated sigh. “ Oh, you know, finals two years ago and your emotional breakdown before your last exam? _That_ video?”

Yuuri blanched when dread temporarily chased away his thoughts. “You wouldn’t,” he whispered because he had thankfully managed to forget about that travesty and having it thrown right at him was the lowest blow of them all. It was a result of a combination of sleep deprivation, nervous breakdown, and pent-up adolescent sexual frustration.

_(He had embraced it all during the after-finals party, let go of his reservations and ended up wishing he had not, for the name that had escaped his lips in a haze of alcohol and fantasies ignored for too long had not belonged to the man taking him apart on the bed that night._

_The guy had come to the rink the following day and Yuuri had resorted to hiding in the toilet for two hours.)_

“What I’m trying to say,” Phichit spoke again, quieter this time, “is don’t decide for him. He wants to have _something_ with you, so give him at least a chance at that.”

It sounded so easy, so reasonable, so _doable_ that Yuuri began to wonder again if it were not a delirious dream after all. A crazy, impossible, wonderful dream his mind wove to save him from his failure.

“Does he like hamsters?”

Yuuri had to blink a few times and cajole his mind to register that question. “Does he—what?”

“Does Viktor like hamsters?” Phichit asked again, turning the phone idly in his hands.

“He likes dogs,” Yuuri told him the first thing that came to his mind. He had amassed a collection of thoughts about Viktor over the years. It was the collection born of official photos and snippets of interviews, of ISU approved articles, modelling campaigns and tabloid speculations that sprang to life whenever Viktor was noticed on a walk, on a trip or – as rare as that was – on a date. All of those were nothing more than iterations of the same image, but now that he had more – now that he knew what Viktor looked like asleep in the morning, what Viktor’s hand felt like in his – he still _wanted_. It was a terrifying feeling, that burning desire – one that threatened to devour him.

Phichit rolled his eyes. “Everyone knows he likes dogs,” he pointed out. “Does it extend to other animals?”

“I—Yeah, I think so,” Yuuri offered hesitantly. Phichit immediately unlocked his phone and began typing something with an unsettling smile on his face. “Wha-what are you doing?”

“I’m sending him a video of my babies.”

Yuuri blinked a few times. “Why would you do that?” he asked, finding his voice after a moment of incredulity-induced silence. He would think twice before sending anything of the sorts to Viktor and it was _him_ who had talked to, laughed with, and woke up with him in his arms.

“Because we’re mutuals on Insta, for one thing,” Phichit told him in his trademark tone reserved for lectures about social media Yuuri insisted on ignoring every single time. “And besides... you must know that whosoever appreciates my babies, if he be worthy, shall be granted the best friend’s seal of approval for dating you.”

It took all of Yuuri’s – at that point considerably low – willpower to refrain from rolling his eyes at that remark. Dating had never really been on table, not with his time stretched thin between training, competitions, classes, and occasional nervous breakdowns that left him vaguely dissociated for days. A relationship had never fit anywhere in his schedule and for a moment he thought fantasies would do, for that was all he had time and strength to indulge in. Fantasies were safer. They would not hurt him and inevitably leave him heartbroken when he got too attached to them.

He had never suspected they would one day be possible. And never before was he so tempted not to run away.

When he finally got to bed that night, he kept staring at the photos in his gallery until his eyes ached and his phone died.

 

* * *

 

Viktor called in the middle of practice the following day and Yuuri almost broke his legs rushing off to pick it up.

He tried to convince himself that it was not about the call. He blamed his rinkmates for his haste. They hovered near the boards where the phones were piled up and his own was currently blaring out _Stammi Vicino_ while showing a photo of him and Viktor he had set as Viktor’s contact image. He even added a blue heart after Viktor’s name and try as he might, he had absolutely no idea how to justify that even to himself.

Maybe it had something to do with a string of the same blue hearts that adorned Viktor’s very first message to him, back from the banquet night – the message he could not read without his face heating up and his heartbeat quickening.

“Hey,” he said upon accepting the call and skating away from the boards to conceal a broad smile that crept unbidden onto his face. Guang Hong was skating around in a series of dizzying twizzles and Yuuri moved past him, past a pair of skaters that notoriously bugged him about going out, past anyone who might overhear him. If need be, he would simply hide in the locker room and hope for the world to disappear until only he and Viktor remained in their tiny bubble of unexpected phone calls.

“Yuuri!” Viktor screamed cheerfully into Yuuri’s ear and his voice breathless with joy. “That video! It was so cute!”

“What—” he began and broke off when memories of the previous night came to his aid. “Oh, that. I’ll tell Phichit you liked it.”

“I already did but if it means I’ll get more videos, then by all means go ahead.” Somehow, Viktor sounded even happier now and Yuuri felt something warm swell in his chest. If his heart had not been so heavy and cold since Sochi, he would swear that was it. “You looked so... carefree in it. I wish—”

“I _what_?” Yuuri interrupted. As always his impulsive brain took control over his mouth. “It was—he said he was sending you his hamsters. _Hamsters_ , not me. Oh my god,” he muttered as mortification settled in his stomach and turned his limbs into lead, “what did he send you?”

“Nothing bad or embarrassing,” Viktor reassured him quickly and Yuuri realised his criteria of embarrassment might differ from Viktor’s quite drastically. “Just you and the hamsters sleeping on you. He was saying something about a long practice? I wasn’t really paying attention to _that_.”

Yuuri remembered that video being taken; he remembered the after-training exhaustion that had turned his muscles into a burning jelly and he remembered homesickness impossible to remedy even by means of Phichit’s hamsters. On days like that he questioned every decision he had ever made and wanted nothing more than disappear in Hasetsu, somewhere between the castle and the ocean on an impossible day that would be made only of the light of the setting sun.

Days like that were private. They were his and his alone.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he told Viktor, pressed the phone to his chest and skated to the boards where Phichit was still happily chatting with Leo and an ice dancer who had once invited himself to their technically forbidden pizza night and stuck to them ever since. Yuuri made a conscious effort to forget his name and ensure he was out of their room whenever the dancer came by.

“Yuuri!” his menace of a roommate yelled and waved at him. Leo smiled, the dancer waved, and Yuuri was done with life. “Chad told me about the party—”

“Chulanont,” he cut him in while his brain tried and failed to refuse to acknowledge that the dancer’s name was Chad and now he knew one more person he would inevitably disappoint, “it was supposed to be a video of the hamsters _only_.”

Phichit blinked a few times and then shot him a shit-eating grin deserving his own entry on Wikipedia. His eyes darted to the phone Yuuri was still cradling to his chest. “Is that...?” he asked and reached out, and never before had Yuuri moved so quickly as he did now to avoid the grabby hands of his roommate.

“I’ll wipe the ice with you in Taipei!” he yelled over his shoulder without even registering what he said. Phichit’s smile got even wider which seemed to be humanly impossible.

“Say hello to your boyfriend from me!”

Yuuri’s face was on fire and no amount of willpower could make it return to its normal colour. “I’m so sorry about him,” he mumbled into the phone and the suspiciously quiet Viktor on the other side of the call. “He’s incorrigible. And shameless. And...” He faltered, desperately wishing for Viktor to say something. Or laugh. Or scorn him – do _anything_ but remain silent and thus feed Yuuri’s imagination with the worst possible reasons for it.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind,” Viktor finally said in a voice far too neutral to be natural. He cleared his throat and Yuuri fought back an urge to do the same. “I... I wouldn’t mind, you know that.”

He closed his eyes; tightly, so, so tightly, and maybe the world would disappear as long as he did not open them. It would leave him alone with his mistakes for all eternity and the only person suffering from them would be himself, leaving Viktor unaffected. And yet he whispered, “I know,” because he promised himself to at least try to be honest.

He had not known how painful it was to stop running away.

“Good,” Viktor said decisively and his tone once again resembled the one Yuuri remembered from Sochi. “I didn’t know Phichit was going to compete in Four Continents with you. Does this mean you got your programmes back on track?”

“I... oh,” he said and stopped. Kicking the ice with his toe picks suddenly seemed like a good idea even though Viktor was thousands of kilometres away and Yuuri did not have to avoid looking at him. And yet the habit was hard to break – and so was accepting that he did want to make it to Four Continents and beyond them. It rarely came easy to him and even less now when he found himself adrift without purpose. “He’s going but I’m... I don’t know if I’ll make it. I’d have to win my Nationals and that’s...”

That was something that chased away the sleep at nights but Viktor did not have to know that.

“Did you work on the interpretation yesterday?” Viktor asked. Yuuri could make out the sounds of cars passing in the background, so at least Viktor did not call in the middle of his own training. Out of the two of them, he certainly needed it more than Yuuri for whom the season might just as well have ended already. “You sounded hopeful enough when we talked.”

Yuuri hummed something vaguely confirming and kicked off into a wide half-circle. “It helped,” he admitted, remembering the contentment that settled in his tired muscles once his short programme had finally started to feel right again the day before. He was supposed to be working on on his free skate – instead, he got hours of aimless floundering and a grinning Phichit who was not going to stop nagging him about the party he was not going to attend. At times like this, he truly missed the Ice Castle in Hasetsu. “It doesn’t mean I won’t—” _have a breakdown at the Nationals_ , he thought but could not say. “I’ll have to do well at All-Japan to be allowed to compete in 4CC and... nothing’s certain at this point.”

There was a moment of silence interrupted by Viktor muttering what Yuuri’s limited proficiency in Russian identified as a ‘good boy’. “It should be,” Viktor finally said. “There isn’t much competition for you. Some of them are kids barely out of Juniors and no one possesses even a fraction of your skills.”

Compliments and praise always made him flustered but never before had it been so overwhelming as it was now that Viktor’s words sipped into his heart like molten gold and set every nerve in his body on fire. But it was tainted and uncalled for and Yuuri was only going to disappoint him.

He had managed to turn his heartbreak into skating of acceptable quality the day before, but it was not enough to actually mend the pieces he had broken into.

“It’s not like that for me,” he said and it felt right. Not too revealing and self-accusatory; vague enough to maybe help him pass as a competent skater for a while longer. “Competitions are a gamble, it’s just the way I am.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Viktor said authoritatively but it was something Yuuri already knew. He should have got accustomed to the pressure of competitions, should have found confidence in his skills after so many years of skating, should have made the best of the limited time the competitive skaters had at their disposal.

There were so many things that should have happened and just as many he should have become – and he managed none of them.

“I...” he began and stopped, and maybe that was the best way to describe him and his career. Just him and lots of stops. Him and hesitation. Him and an infinity of missed chances.

“You should focus on your strengths more. For example, your choreography this year is too safe and puts too much emphasis on jumps,” Viktor went on and his voice grew more and more impersonal. Yuuri knew it was the

_(coach)_

World Champion speaking now, not the Viktor who got excited because of a hamster video. Making one person out of those two sides of him proved to be impossible. “You should skate to a programme focusing on first your step sequences and then your spins, using as few necessary jumps as possible as long as you have trouble landing them. You could most likely remove the quads from your routines altogether for All-Japan. It’s not like your competitors can even perform those jumps.”

Yuuri cringed and did not say a word. What could he even say to rational arguments like those when he had already mulled them over countless times before and came up with nothing? Rationality ceased to exist when his nerves were eating him alive.

“I can’t just...” he hesitated for a moment, looking for away to turn his thoughts into words. For such constant companions, they were surprisingly difficult to vocalise. “I can’t lower the difficulty of my programmes. I already failed in Sochi, I’ll only let everyone know it wasn’t a one-time thing if I simplify my routines now.”

“You wouldn’t be simplifying them, you’d be simply playing to your strengths.”

“But I can’t!” Yuuri yelled and immediately clasped a hand over his mouth because the echo carried his voice over the rink. A few of his rinkmates glanced in his direction but he avoided so much as looking at them. It was not a conversation meant for them – it was only between Viktor, him, and his fears. “If I do that, I could just as well announce how weak I am. I need to skate my best, I need to show everyone Sochi will never happen again. I need... I need to do that for myself.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor said softly. That tone of his voice belonged to a quiet evening away from the world, to a comfort of seclusion in the arms of another person – not to a noisy ice rink and separation measured in hours. “No one will think less of you if you—”

“I will,” he interrupted and the truth in those words made him furiously jab the toe picks into the ice. “I will think less of myself.”

Viktor fell silent for a while, unwittingly letting Yuuri listen to the sounds that used to be drowned by their conversation. People talking, cars driving by, and dogs barking – all created a canvas on which Yuuri’s imagination painted an image of life had had no idea about. It did not stop him from craving walking side by side with Viktor on the streets of Saint Petersburg on a winter afternoon; the image once safely impossible to attain and now terrifyingly within his grasp if only he made all the right choices.

He never made the right choices.

“Makka, _nyet_ ,” Viktor finally murmured and if Yuuri strained his ears, he could almost hear a dog’s panting. He saw it perfectly – Viktor with wind-mussed hair and an over-excited poodle with eyes full of happiness and a slobbered up toy in his mouth. “Ah, sorry, he’s...”

“I know,” Yuuri said because he truly did. Vicchan had been his priority once as well and should have remained that way. Perhaps if it had happened, he would have had one regret fewer on his conscience.

“So if that’s your attitude, I expect you to give me a challenge at Worlds. _Challenge_ me, Yuuri. Make me want to fight.”

“But I—”

“Besides,” Viktor cheerily went on, paying no heed to Yuuri’s protests, “we’re going dancing. “I’m already trying to decide what to wear because I’m going to sweep you off your feet just like you swept me.”

Yuuri’s imagination, wild as it was and cursed with a life of its own, immediately presented him with an image of Viktor in some unnamed club in Tokyo, his shirt unbuttoned and his hair illuminated by the club’s lights. He would extend his hand for Yuuri to take the same way he had done in Sochi and maybe, _maybe_ Yuuri for once would not make a fool of himself.

It hurt how much he wanted that.

“You...” he croaked and cleared his throat because it suddenly went dry despite the rink’s chilly air. “You don’t need to.”

_You already have, long ago._

“Oh, but I do. And I want to. After all, you’ve seen me in the morning after drinking. I have to improve that undoubtedly terrible impression I must have made.”

A memory of a sleepy Viktor and his languid smile flashed before Yuuri’s eyes and left his heart clenched in a fist of unimaginable longing. “It wasn’t terrible,” he murmured, trying to think of something else, something he did not want to get used to. It was a dangerous, addictive emotion, this craving and hoping for more; one he should not entertain. “I, uhm... I didn’t mind that.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor breathed, a sound barely audible and resembling a sigh more than an actual word and if Yuuri did not already know what his name sounded like when spoken by Viktor, he would never believe that was what he heard.

So he said, “I’ll try,” and much to his own surprise his voice held an undertone of a steely determination he thought to have lost in Sochi. How could he not feel it when Viktor was unknowingly asking for what Yuuri had been dreaming about since childhood? In that precise moment, under the artificial lights of the rink, he did not care about having asked Viktor to coach him, or about Viktor’s fixation on going out with him when there were so many better men willing to do that without panicking and asking for time.

Viktor wanted a challenge and Yuuri would do his best to give him that.

“You better,” Viktor said with a similar fervour, “because I’d hate to reschedule our date.”

And just like that the determination was gone, replaced by an overwhelming fluster that burnt in his heart and on his face alike. “Viktor...” he whined to the phone, uncaring that his rinkmates could have overheard that. After all, there were too many Viktors in the world and no one would be willing to believe that Yuuri was talking to the most unlikely of them all. He himself had troubles accepting that.

Viktor laughed but the pitch of it was off, forced and fake, and it sent a pang of guilt straight to Yuuri’s stomach. “I know, I know, I’m kidding,” Viktor said and his voice was just like that laugh – strained and hollow. “But my request still stands. Let’s make it a Worlds worth remembering.”

 _Wash Sochi away_ , Yuuri thought and refrained from saying aloud because no matter how painful the memory of it was, Sochi brought them together. “Yeah,” he said instead. “Let’s do that.”

“Marvellous,” Viktor purred, sending unexpected down Yuuri’s spine even though that unnerving, false note could still be heard beneath the contentment. “Now go practise, I’ve kept you long enough.”

“You didn’t,” Yuuri protested on an impulse.

“I did. Go. Let me know later how it went.”

“I...” he hesitated, unwilling to finish the call because it could mean a definite end to their brief and undefined not-relationship. Even despite Viktor’s reassurances, despite his excitement and questions, Yuuri still feared that every goodbye was going to be the last. “Okay, I will.”

“Good. Have fun, Yuuri,” Viktor said and his voice was soft again even if slightly strained – and Yuuri had no idea if he were the reason for it, or something else entirely.

 _Make me want to fight_ , Viktor had said and Yuuri’s thoughts clung to that sentence like jackals ready to rip it to pieces and search for a hidden meaning where most likely there was none. He glided slowly towards the boards, his steps turning into wide arches as if making his edges flawless could somehow help him find the tiniest bit of inspiration for his free skate.

It was supposed to about reaching towards a new dream but the only thing to look forward to was Viktor. Viktor’s time, Viktor’s smile, Viktor’s warm gaze. And he held that too closely to his heart to simply show it to the world without reservations.

“Yuuri, we’ve got to go to this party,” Phichit told him, his voice cheerful and his eyes full of excitement, and that was _exactly_ what Yuuri did not have energy to deal with. He was officially out of excuses and if Worlds were not the only thing on his mind, he would probably start to worry. “You might—”

“You go,” he cut him in, pointedly avoiding Chad’s and Leo’s gazes as he put his phone on the boards. There he was, Katsuki Yuuri, the man who picked up his phone only on emergencies, returning from a phone that lasted long, long minutes. “I need to practise.”

“You’ve been doing nothing but practising,” Phichit whined as if that ever helped. “Come on, just forget about it for one night. It’ll do you good, even without your banquet boy here.”

He was right, Yuuri knew that. And yet he was not the one with the Nationals looking over him like the only thing that could save his competitive career. In a way – illogical, deeply emotional way that sprouted straight from Yuuri’s anxiety – they were exactly that. “Sorry, Phichit-kun, I... I have to make it to Worlds,” he said because at least that reason was simple enough and understandable without baring his fears for everyone to see.

Phichit blinked, his face twisting in a mask of confusion. “Worlds?” he asked and Yuuri could tell what he was thinking about. Too far in the future, too many competitions before them, too many things that could yet go wrong. He knew all those arguments – he was thinking about them himself. “Why Worlds exactly? They’re months away.”

 _Because Viktor Nikiforov_ _wants me to challenge him. Because he wants to skate against me_ , he could have said. _Because something’s wrong and he shouldn’t need_ me _to motivate him_ , he could have continued with, even though an observation so vague and so personal should never be spoken aloud. But his mind was still stubbornly mulling over that too loud a laugh and too empty words, so he blurted out, “I have a date,” skated away, then promptly tripped over his toe picks and kissed the ice once he realised what he just said.

 

* * *

 

 _I have a date_ , Yuuri thought later that night, alone in his and Phichit’s dorm room. He wrapped himself in every blanket he had and tried to ignore the dread that settled cold and heavy in his stomach.

He was afraid it was not a date and terrified it might be that, and clutching a poodle plush toy to his chest did nothing to help him figure out which of those possibilities he wanted to be true.

 

* * *

 

 _I have a date_ , he thought days later in Sapporo, skating towards the centre of the ice to perform a programme about dreams that had barely begun taking shape in his mind. He took the fear and poured in into his routine and let himself soar while the crowds deafened him with his cheers.

 

* * *

 

 _I have a date_ , he thought, high on elation, and accepted a bouquet of blue roses from a courier. Blush prominent on his face, he buried it in the flowers to hide from the eyes of his astonished rinkmates.

‘I knew you could do it,’ was written on a card that came with the flowers; the card he put on his desk next to the frame that proudly displayed a photo of him and Viktor dancing in Sochi.

He looked at them, the photo and the card and the bouquet of roses, and for the first time in weeks went to sleep smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://naamah-beherit.tumblr.com/) in case you'd like to say hello, file a complaint report, or witness occasional floods of photos of dogs and the outer space.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Skowronek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skowronek) for beta reading this chapter, and to both her and [Vampiric_Charms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampiric_Charms) for listening to me whine about writing it ♥

When a warm hand landed on his shoulder and a quiet, “ _Zdrávstvujte_ ,” was murmured into his ear, Yuuri shrieked, flapped his arms and fell onto his butt so hard his teeth clattered. Someone gasped, “Yuuri!” and rushed to help him up, and upon seeing Viktor’s blue eyes filled with worry, Yuuri was certain that he was dreaming.

It would not be the first time. There was always an ice rink in those dreams, empty and dimly lit. Viktor usually said something inconsequential first; occasionally, it was Yuuri if his subconscious deemed him confident enough. And then suddenly the scenery would shift and they would be behind the boards, fingers entangled and one of them about to fall to his knees, the other leaning against the wall, sweatpants and underwear soon to be discarded and the world itself forgotten.

“Are you all right?” Viktor asked, helping him back to his feet as if Yuuri was a stranger to standing up after a fall to the ice. He made a move to brush the scratched ice off his hip and halted, his movements hesitant in a way they had never been before in those dreams. Yuuri glanced around at his rinkmates, who stood frozen in various stages of shock, and at the coaches, whose expressions varied from puzzlement to irritation, and then he turned his gaze back at Viktor standing in front of him. He seemed so real, so incredibly tangible: starting from the golden blades of his skates to his ashen hair that glinted in the lamplight and looked so soft that Yuuri craved to feel it again against his skin.

He also wanted to drag Viktor away, push him against the lockers and... he could not decide what exactly he wanted to do this time, but it definitely involved fewer clothes than they both had on at that moment.

“Yuuri?” Viktor asked again, his eyes frantically darting all over Yuuri’s face as if he tried to find something specific on it. He reached out again and this time did not hesitate, gently putting his hand on Yuuri’s arm. “Are you hurt? Should I call a doctor?”

Nauseous with dread boiling sickeningly in his gut, Yuuri pushed the fringe away from Viktor’s face and let his hand rest on his cheek. Viktor’s eyes, bloodshot and tired, widened. He leant into the touch, almost imperceptibly and most likely instinctively, judging by the speed with which he almost immediately took a step back as if Yuuri’s hand burnt him. Yuuri flinched and jumped back too, trying to ignore a pang of hurt that sparked to life in his heart.

“Yuuri—”

“Oh my god, you’re here,” he heard himself say. Viktor raised a brow in a silent question. “You’re here and you’re real and it’s not a dream.”

The look of utter confusion on Viktor’s face quickly morphed into delight. He leant again into Yuuri’s personal space with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Yuuri,” he crooned happily, “did you _dream_ about me?”

Yuuri blinked, screamed – and fell again.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri could not tell when messages and calls from Viktor had become a permanent fixture in his life. It could have been any day in the past month, any night Viktor fell asleep while they were talking, and any day Yuuri woke up to a new photo of Makkachin. It could have also happened the first time Viktor disappeared for almost two days and then apologised for it, blaming his absence on the post-training exhaustion. The second time Yuuri had found no message awaiting him in the morning hurt slightly less than the first, so he had sent a good morning of his own and tried not to feel disappointed when the answer he got the following day was only, ‘ _Good morning. I’m sorry_ ’.

He was tempted to ask a question not yet fully formed in his mind, but found no courage to actually do it. He’d experienced his own share of invasive questions and would rather suffer in silence than subject Viktor to prying like that.

So when Viktor vanished again, Yuuri swallowed it like a bitter pill and cut the ice to shreds instead, the tangled knot of his emotions turning his already mediocre free skate into a farce of completely unacceptable quality. Celestino clapped and praised him for nailing his jumps, and Yuuri...

Yuuri left and let the winter wind dry the tears on his face. The decision was made long before he hid beneath a blanket on his bed.

Viktor still did not send anything the following morning, but he said it to Yuuri’s ear in the afternoon.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri had plans. _The_ Plans, even, well-thought about in capital letters and filled to the brim with expectations and half-acknowledged hopes he did not have courage to explore and categorise. They included him and Viktor in Tokyo after Worlds, where he would at least _try_ to act as though Viktor did not turn him into a stuttering mess at worst or a personification of awkwardness at best. He hoped the calls would have helped by then, that the roots of familiarity would have been well in place and his heart would not clench at Viktor’s every smile.

Instead, he was sitting next to Viktor on a rinkside bench and staring at him as if weeks of texting and talking meant nothing.

He was no better than his rinkmates and hated himself for it. At least they had the decency to stare from the distance.

“Why are you... What are you doing here?”

Viktor looked up from the phone he was fiddling with and gave him a bright, wide grin. “I was advised to take a few days off so I wouldn’t overtrain myself before Euros, and I thought why not visit?” Despite the grin, Yuuri could hear reservations in his voice, something that had not been there since that fateful excursion to the beach in Sochi. “I have all these miles at my disposal.”

“And you came... here? To Detroit?”

 _‘When you could have gone anywhere in the world?’_ remained unsaid.

Viktor playfully bumped his shoulder. “Well, _you_ are here and I have something to show you.”

“You do?” Yuuri blurted out, his mind immediately going into overdrive. Nothing of the sort had ever been mentioned before.

Viktor’s smile softened, turning into something much more natural. Much more beautiful. “I do,” he said, unlocked his phone and handed it to Yuuri. “I’ve been working on this in my free time ever since you mentioned you were still having trouble with your free.”

And just like that, the world came to a halt.

“You...” Yuuri stuttered. “What?”

“I’ve been fooling around with choreography,” Viktor explained, cheerfully, almost carelessly, as if tweaking a competitor’s programme was the most normal thing to do. “It’s nothing, really, just a few loosely tied ideas, but I thought that... maybe you’d find something usable.”

That momentary, barely noticeable pause almost made Yuuri look up at him, but then Viktor pressed play and the world that had stopped shattered to pieces around them.

It was such a surreal experience, to see Viktor aimlessly skate in his practice clothes in a rink that did not resemble the Yubileyny Sports Palace in the slightest, to watch him go through random moves and change choreography on the fly, to fall and get up, to stumble and switch to different components when those he had just used did not work. There was a shadow of a routine in them, unrefined and nowhere near the competition level, but Viktor’s artistry was enough to give it depth, to make it look like he was chasing after something tantalising and skittish; something almost within his reach and yet always a hair’s breadth away.

For the first time in history, it was not Yuuri who tried to skate like Viktor, but the exact opposite. Whatever dreams Yuuri might have had on his own, they paled in comparison to the reality of watching Viktor try to transform his free skate into something at least partially usable.

Acting on an impulse he had no intention of fighting, Yuuri threw his arms around Viktor and buried his face in his neck, trying to stop tears from falling. His heart felt full, so heavy with all the gratitude and incredulity that he was afraid it would cave in under the weight of them. Viktor let out a surprised gasp and put his arms around Yuuri – gently, so gently Yuuri thought he imagined that ghost of a touch. He murmured his quiet thanks right into the warm skin of Viktor’s neck and the frantic pulse he felt underneath.

Viktor’s arms tightened around him and then his body lost all of its previous stiffness. All of a sudden he was pliant; filling every nook and cranny of Yuuri’s body as if he were a part of it, immovable and irremovable. He could just as well have been there forever, wrapped tightly in Yuuri’s embrace, and remain that way even longer until neither of them knew where one ended and the other began.

And that was what made Yuuri lean back, splitting in two this terrifying and wonderful entity born of being together. He had walked away from it once and it was easy to do it again, to lock the idea of togetherness under the key of old habits and fear of change. Too soon, he kept telling himself even though he had no idea what had to happen for _‘too soon’_ to change into _‘it’s time’_.

The last thing he saw before bowing deeply was a blush on Viktor’s cheeks. “Thank you,” he said again, because once was not enough. It could never be enough – not when he was thanking for so many things at the same time.

“You don’t need to thank me,” Viktor said, his voice so quiet only Yuuri heard him. Because of that, for a while he could pretend they were alone in this moment. “What kind of friend would I be if I let you skate to that subpar choreography you’ve been given this season?”

 _‘A friend,_ ’ Viktor said. It still left Yuuri giddy, that impossible state of affairs that had become his reality, even if more and more often he allowed himself to consider that maybe it was not exactly what he truly wanted. “How much...” he started and trailed off, hesitant to finish what he wanted to say. It felt like an insult and yet he knew it would sour his thoughts until he gave in.

“How much what?”

“How much do I owe you for this?”

A grimace of hurt flashed briefly on Viktor’s face, but was gone the very next second, replaced with that wide, media-ready smile Yuuri had come to loathe. Seeing it directed at him hurt more than asking that question.

“I’m sorry, I just—”

Viktor pressed his finger firmly to Yuuri’s lips, silencing both him and this thoughts. All Yuuri could hear was his madly beating heart, the rest of his senses reduced to feeling the warmth of Viktor’s hand and seeing the blue depths of his gaze, heavy with determination.

“You on the podium with me at Worlds,” Viktor said. “That’s what I want. Can you do that for me?”

In that moment he could probably ask for the world on a silver platter and Yuuri would promise to give it to him. It took every last bit of strength to simply nod his acquiescence.

“Good.” Viktor looked at him appraisingly and took his hand away. Yuuri flinched when the warmth of that touch disappeared as if it were never there. In its place, the cold returned and the need to breathe hit him like a tidal wave. “I booked us the ice for two hours after your club’s practice. I thought we should go over your programme in private.”

“Yes,” Yuuri breathed, excitement unexpectedly pooling in his stomach. He had not been so eager to skate since Sochi and only now did he realise how much he missed that feeling.

A wide smile bloomed on Viktor’s face; the rarest one, full of genuine joy and enthusiasm. It always made his eyes sparkle and Yuuri would give the world to preserve that sight for posterity.

_(He would willingly keep it to himself, this coveted treasure of incomparable beauty, and never show it to anyone else)_

“I’ll go warm up and meet your here in... forty minutes?” Viktor suggested upon glancing at the rink’s clock. “I think your rinkmates might want autographs. I can feel them staring at me.”

Yuuri blinked and burst out laughing when the ridiculousness of this entire situation caught up with him. He had been presented with the impossible so many times already. He should have get used to it by now, but Viktor – perfect, wonderful, _impossible_ Viktor – did not stop surprising him.

“Don’t worry,” he said, smiled and felt the warmth spread throughout his entire body at the sight of a smile he received in return. “I’ll save you if they swarm you.”

Viktor gasped and put a hand to his chest. “My hero! What would I do without you in this dangerous place?”

“You’d probably charm them with your skating. You’re good at that.”

“Did I charm you all those years ago?” He leant closer still, his smile getting on an edge Yuuri had not seen before; something mischievous and determined that corresponded with the predatory glint in his eyes.

Blood rushed to Yuuri’s face with the speed of light. “N-no comment,” he stuttered and it only resulted in Viktor’s smile getting even wider. He closed the distance between them swiftly and decisively until their noses almost brushed, his blue eyes becoming the only thing Yuuri could see. Not for the first time he wished he could drown in them.

“You know, heroes always get the girl and the kiss at the end of all these films,” Viktor went on, his voice purr-like. “I’m no girl, but I could—”

“Go warm up!” Yuuri yelled and all but ran to the ice, his rinkmates astonished stares and Viktor’s pearly laugh following in his wake.

He ignored it all and lost himself in the step sequence of his short programme to escape questions and mortification – and yet somehow with a stupid, dopey smile stuck on his face, he thought he could take on the world and win.

 

* * *

 

“He’s so... _wow_ ,” Phichit sighed, his voice full of awe. He was standing beside Yuuri, watching Viktor give autographs and take innumerable selfies with everyone who wanted one. They had the same star-struck look on their faces and flocked to Viktor like moths to a candle

_(like jackals to a carcass; mindless, hungry, unseeing)_

and it made Yuuri feel irrelevant in comparison. He’d had Viktor’s attention all to himself for those few weeks and even though limited by time and distance, it was something he had learnt to cherish.

Now Viktor was in the same place and at the same time, close enough for them to touch one another, and never before had Yuuri felt so invisible. As the promised forty minutes turned into fifty and then a full hour, he stopped counting and tried to ignore disappointment and anger burning in his heart. Viktor did not owe him anything, let alone his time and attention, and the mere presence of him should be enough.

He was not

_(Yuuri’s)_

a thing Yuuri could possess and hide from the world, because after all the world was where Viktor belonged.

“What is he even doing here?” Celestino huffed. If Yuuri did not know what annoyance looked like, he would have found its perfect image in his coach’s furrowed brow and rigid posture. Could it be he knew? Was it possible someone had told him what happened at the banquet and he had been waiting for Yuuri to admit the desire for a change, and Yuuri as always failed to live up to his expectations?

“He wants to help me with my free skate,” he said for there was no reason to hide it. If he was going to leave the rink with a new routine, it would be obvious where it came from.

Celestino looked at him with barely concealed surprise and incredulity. “Nothing’s wrong with your free skate,” he said and the conviction in his voice would usually be enough to make Yuuri bow, agree and retreat.

Now that he had seen what could become of his programme, it was surprisingly easy – and inexplicably exhilarating – to stand his ground. “ _Everything_ is wrong with my free skate,” he stated fiercely. Celestino’s eyebrows shot upwards. “It doesn’t flow right, doesn’t _feel_ right, it’s not...”

“You’ve finally landed all jumps of this routine and _now_ you want to change it?”

He could feel their eyes on him, Celestino’s and Phichit’s, he knew the questions they wanted to ask to which he had no satisfactory answers. “It’s not about the jumps,” he said instead, racking his brain for an argument other than admitting that if he were to skate his current routine one more time, he would end up crying his eyes out and possibly retiring immediately afterwards. “The presentation, I... I can’t get it right. Viktor has a few ideas, he’s— _we’ve_ been—”

“Yuuri, you know his reputation, he’s—”

“He’s my friend,” he said, trying his best to stay calm and withhold the fury those words brought to life. Celestino winced and fell silent for a moment, as if expecting an explanation he was not going to get. There was none – all Yuuri had were confusing feelings and a month-old relationship that could perhaps one day become friendship.

Viktor’s reputation of a flighty playboy was no deterrent, especially since he had shown none of it to Yuuri.

Celestino let out a sigh, telltale and tired, and usually it would be enough for Yuuri to start reconsidering his arguments. Now, all he felt was anger simmering like an itch under his skin.

“He’s your competitor. There’s no friendship between competitors, it ends when points and medals come into picture.”

And just like that, Yuuri felt something snap in his heart. “I don’t think our contract includes you giving me life advice,” he said, his voice cold and barely recognisable.

“Yuuri...” Celestino began, eyes narrowing and voice taking on a edge he usually used when Phichit did not want to put away the phone.

“The base value of this programme is not high enough,” Yuuri interrupted without a shred of doubt. He had spent too many days hating his routine to start doubting himself now. And he had listened to Viktor dissecting his programmes long enough to be able to identify the weak spots rather than just eat the ice failing at them. “The jumps don’t follow the music and I can’t make up for them with composition and interpretation.”

The commotion around them seemed to have died, but he did not know why until Viktor appeared by his side. He put a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder and its weight was comforting, empowering even. It was no demand, no judgement – just a silent reassurance. Yuuri had to fight an insane idea of putting his own hand atop Viktor’s.

“Is that what you think?” Celestino slowly asked and folded his arms. His brows were furrowed and his gaze calculating. Cold. “Or is it what _he_ told you?”

Blood rushed to Yuuri’s head and while his coach was frigid and closed off, he on the other hand felt hot all over, restless and angry and desperate to calm down through endless hours of skating figures. “This is not about him, this is about me and my free,” he almost barked, resentment rising to his throat like bile, threatening to choke him. It was a familiar feeling, one that always stole his breath and brought him to tears.

“Well, _he_ daresays he knows what he’s talking about,” Viktor chimed in, all blinding smile and twinkling eyes, and yet Yuuri heard only hurt and determination. Were they truly Viktor’s, or maybe his own – he did not know. “After all, I’ve been the ruling world champion for years and I hold all the world records. I’d like to believe my suggestion about choreography are rather valuable.”

Celestino ran a hand through his messy hair. “Yuuri is...” he started and broke off, a look of utter frustration appearing briefly on his face and then disappearing in a blink of an eye. His apparent inability to being either unable or unwilling to voice his thoughts made Yuuri grit his teeth to stop himself from screaming.

“Yuuri is what, coach?” he asked instead. He managed it without a wobble in his voice and it was a greater achievement than the gold medal he won at All-Japan. Something cold and suffocating seemed to have grown in his stomach, leaving him nauseous, sweaty and wishing he could carry this argument by email with a few days of prior notice. “Not good enough? Not skilled enough?”

“It’s not that and you know it. You’ve been so inconsistent since Sochi. Do you really think changing the routine will help?”

“It certainly won’t hurt because I have no chance of getting a decent score with the one I have now.”

“Yuuri, you got the gold at Nationals with it. You’re going to 4CC and Worlds, it’s already a huge success.” Celestino spoke with conviction, his reasoning perfectly understandable and logical.

It made Yuuri feel like a scolded child.

Viktor was just a silent presence by his side, strong and immovable, warm just like the hand he was keeping on Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri did not risk so much as glancing at him, unwilling to find out if he would spot boredom in his gaze or perhaps amusement at this entirely needless debate. Maybe he would simply appear lost in thoughts, accustomed to fights between coaches and their students. After all, Yuuri could count on one hand interviews in which Yakov Feltsman had not raised his voice.

He only wished Viktor did not have to witness how miserably he was failing at standing up for himself.

“Participating isn’t enough for me,” he said, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on Celestino’s face. Only because of that he did not miss a flicker of tired annoyance in his coach’s eyes. “I want a chance for a medal and Viktor’s routine can give me that.”

Celestino sighed heavily, as if he carried the weight of the world on his back. It hit Yuuri like a punch to the gut, forceful and full of suspicions. “Do you even want me to skate like I’m going for the podium?”

That at least seemed to have shaken Celestino out of the haze of disappointment. “Of course I do,” he assured. This time the conviction in his voice sounded forced – for there was nothing convincing about him this afternoon, nothing familiar and safe. He used to be all that and even more, all those years ago at the beginning of their partnership. Yuuri could not tell when this chasm between them began to grow, but it was already there in Sochi, gaping and impossible to fill.

So he asked, “Do you _believe_ I can do it?” because apparently he was a masochist who needed to be explicitly told he was expected to fail.

A moment of silence followed his question and then, “Yes, I do,” came a heartbeat too late and Yuuri’s hopes shattered.

“No, you don’t,” he said. Celestino winced at the hurt and bitterness in those words. “You haven’t since the Final and...” He let his voice trail away and took a shuddering breath. There would be no tears; not now, not until he was alone.

“I refuse to watch you burn yourself out on an entirely new routine when you’ve been struggling for _months_ with those you already have,” his coach finally announced. It was logical, final even, and Yuuri had long but learnt not to question him.

All the frustration and heartbreak, the confusion and late-night doubts, the pain and bruises and

_(Vicchan)_

all those precious things he had given up over the years – all of them suddenly crumbled to dust and left him bereft. And in the ashes of his dreams, anger rose and fuelled his determination.

“In this case I’ll see you tomorrow to discuss the terms of contract termination,” he said, putting the last gargantuan effort in keeping his voice steady. Then he turned to Viktor, who was watching him with wide eyes and a slightly parted mouth, seemingly at a loss for words. Yuuri did not blame him for that – no words could describe the fact that he just killed his competitive career. “Will you show me the routine, please?”

Viktor nodded and smiled; softly, sadly. “ _Da,_ ” he said, paying no heed to Celestino who was staring at them with the look of utter incredulity frozen on his face. It was twisting on the edges, morphing into something else entirely. “Come on, time’s wasting.”

“Yuuri!” his coach – not-coach? Just one more disappointed person Yuuri left in his wake? – finally shook himself out of his stunned stupor. His face went red – the shade of it could probably rival Yakov’s grandest outbursts. “What in god’s name’s got into you? Yuuri!”

Yuuri did not react. He kept going forward, right into the cold embrace of his greatest love and his worst enemy, and the man he admired all his life followed him dutifully as if that was all he had ever done. Celestino kept yelling, but Yuuri forced himself to ignore him, letting the shouts fall into the background noise of the rink.

For some unfathomable reason, his heart was devoid of dread for the first time in weeks.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, he left the rink with a routine burnt in his memory and recorded in his phone, and a silent Viktor walking beside him.

There was a crease edged onto his forehead, deep and bringing out a contemplative, faraway look in his eyes. Yuuri had no idea what might have caused that. Maybe it was him – a jump he had failed to land, or the spectacle he had made of himself earlier. He was tempted to ask, because as far as his bad decisions went, it would be nothing compared to what he had already done that day.

Was it even be acceptable of him to ask? Would it not break unwritten rules of a long-distance friendship that settled between them, still new and brittle? In no universe should Viktor worry over the triviality that was Katsuki Yuuri. And yet despite the uncomfortable silence and the struggle to decide whether or not to ask, Yuuri still felt guilty for checking his phone when it buzzed in his pocket.

“Phichit’s, uhm...” he began without a stutter and found a great deal of pride in that. “He asked me to grab us something to eat and I... I’ll understand if you want to go back to your hotel, but in case you wanted to, you could maybe have a-a late dinner with us?”

Viktor’s eyes were wide when he looked at him is astonishment and Yuuri inwardly berated himself for assuming too much. He always did that; got ahead of himself too fast and too far, straight on the path to self-destruction.

“Forget I asked, sorry.” It was for himself more than for Viktor, for there were only so many sorries one could utter to another person.

“But I’d love to!” Viktor exclaimed and grabbed him by the arm when Yuuri unconsciously picked up a faster pace. His eyes shone with a tentative hope. “If the offer’s still open?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri said. He got a broad smile in return; one that propelled his heart into a somersault of a decade. “It is. How about the best pizza on this side of Detroit? I feel like it’s a good day for cheat day.”

Viktor hummed thoughtfully, tapping a finger to his lips in what Yuuri had already realised was a habit of his. “I haven’t had a cheat day in a while, so yes, let’s do it!”

His cheerfulness called forth a long-known pain Yuuri had learnt to live with a long time ago, but that did not make it any easier to bear. After all, he did not need additional reminders why Viktor was the undefeated World Champion, while he, Katsuki Yuuri, was just a second-rate skater from a dying town in Japan, to stubborn to quit after a failure of spectacular magnitude.

Cold fingers grazed his chin and brought him out of his own mind. Yuuri’s eyes darted upwards and locked with Viktor’s, who was looking at him with a soft, lopsided smile. “You get a crease here,” he said and tapped Yuuri’s forehead, “when you’re thinking about something. And your eyes sparkle. You look so determined then, like you’re planning to win a war.”

Yuuri groaned and pulled his scarf up all the way to his eyes. The only war he waged was that with his own mind – and he was the losing side more often than not.

“What’s on your mind, _radost’ moya_?”

There it was again, that phrase Yuuri promised himself to never translate. He was not thrilled with not knowing what it meant – and yet knowing was somehow even worse, almost frightening. Viktor’s voice, full of affection that shaped those words and gave them meaning, was already too much too bear sometimes. It reminded Yuuri of the person the alcohol had turned him into in Sochi – the person he was not.

“What’s on yours?” he retorted, much harsher than he intended. He took a deep breath and let the frigid air clear the fog of doubt in his head. It never really left him, but perhaps he would be able to keep it at bay until he was alone. “You’ve been quiet since we left the rink. And—and you’re frowning when you’re thinking, too, you know? You’ve been frowning and staring ahead and—and...”

 _I’m sorry I’ve made you feel that way_ , he almost said, even though he had no idea what was going on in Viktor’s head. Eleven years of fannish obsession and a few weeks of texting and phone calls did not make him an expert. And if anything, all that had happened since Sochi taught him to throw expectations to the wind. Anticipating Viktor’s reaction was always deemed to fail.

“I know I didn’t give your routine justice, but I’ll try and—”

“No!” Viktor yelled, grabbed him by the arm and practically dragged him to the edge of the pavement, out of the way of other passerby. His face was reflecting nothing but distress, and Yuuri had to ball his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching out and smoothing those worried lines out of Viktor’s features. “It’s not about the routine, it’s... Do you think it was a good idea to drop Cialdini this close to the end of the season? I can’t... I can’t coach you, not now. After the season ends, yes, but...”

“But I don’t want you to,” Yuuri interjected. Viktor’s face fell; despair far too great to be concealed took over it in a blink of an eye, impossible to hide or ignore. And before Yuuri thought better of it, he took Viktor’s face in his hands. Something flickered to life in his eyes; something weak and fragile, and Yuuri wanted to cradle it in his arms long enough for it to grow and thrive. “I didn’t mean—I meant this season! I would never have asked... _Never_.”

Viktor let out a shuddering breath, closed his eyes and leant into Yuuri’s palms – and unlike at the rink earlier, he did not shy away or pretended it hadn’t happened. He simply melted into Yuuri’s touch and Yuuri felt his heart burst.

“Then if... if not _that_...”

“It wasn’t because of you,” Yuuri said with determination, because he could fuck up his life all he wanted, but he refused to be the cause of Viktor’s distress. “I did it for me. I’m better off without him than I’d be with him. At worst, nothing will change. At best... well, maybe at least I’ll do well.”

Viktor looked at him imploringly – or perhaps _into_ him, because Yuuri felt like he was trying to read his mind, dissect it and analyse every single piece in search of meaning that was not there. “Then why?” he asked. “You’ve been training with him for five years. Why such a sudden change of mind?”

Yuuri’s hands dropped as he looked down, absentmindedly cataloguing every crack in the pavement and every weak patch of moss trying to grow in them. “He’s...” he began, unsure and even unwilling to voice his thoughts. It had been easy to dwell on them, to let them grow and fester and eat him from the inside. Saying them aloud was a different matter entirely. “He’s been like that since Sochi. He told me to practice nothing but jumps all over again, even when I was so tired I could throw up on the ice. I could flap my arms like a dying fish and it was still fine as long as I landed my jumps.”

He began walking again, acting on an impulse he was not even aware of; one that told him to move forward, away from everything and everyone. He felt more than heard Viktor follow him and for once Yuuri did not dismiss the idea of someone willing to trail after him into darkness he spun for himself out of his thoughts.

“I know they’re important,” he said, for refusing to admit that fact would lead him nowhere. “But it’s come to a point my footwork suffered from it. I’m hardly any good—”

“Yuuri—”

“—but I know my footwork is fine,” he finished regardless of words of protest Viktor undoubtedly wanted to say. He always argued whenever Yuuri said anything else but praise about himself, and it was as baffling as it was pleasant. “I don’t want to lose the one thing I do well. I can’t afford to lose it.”

Viktor was simply walking beside him, saying nothing for a long while. Yuuri did not mind that, finding the silence between them comforting rather than jarring. It was a rare occurrence that he felt that way; unusual enough to spark just the right amount of courage for him to look up and rest his eyes on Viktor. He took in every detail of his profile – each errant strand of hair and barely noticeable wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw and the not-entirely concealed bags under his eyes. He saw them all and memorised them for the day when this insane fairy tale would certainly come to an end. When it did, he would at least have memories. They alone were already more than he had ever expected to have.

“He’s never been a good coach for you,” Viktor finally declared, his gaze still fixed on something in front of him rather than on Yuuri. A tiny and childish yet amazingly vocal part of Yuuri’s brain insisted that it was him Viktor should be looking at, not something inconsequential and invisible. Yuuri squashed that part with a great deal of panic and even a greater amount of embarrassment. “You were the best in juniors. Ever since you started training with him, you’ve been losing your shine. It’s a shame, really, for wasting all of your potential.”

Words. It was nothing but words falling all around Yuuri and never really reaching him. Empty, impossible words – and yet he desperately wanted to believe in them.

“Or perhaps he simply...” he began hesitantly, “can’t do anything. I’m just a dime-a-dozen skater and coaches aren’t miracle workers capable of turning mediocrity into greatness.”

“ _Blyat_ ,” Viktor groaned – even with his elementary knowledge of Russian, Yuuri knew what _that_ meant – and took him by the arm again. Even though it was far from forceful, Yuuri still stopped dead in his tracks, apprehension flooding his limbs and turning them into lead.

Viktor was glaring at him, his brow furrowed and posture stiff like a string ready to snap. His hand was still curled around Yuuri’s arm. A part of Yuuri’s mind – the one that apparently delighted in finding new ways of making a fool out of him – unhelpfully prompted him to wonder what it would have felt like had there been no clothes between his skin and Viktor’s palm.

Yuuri gulped and hoped his face was sufficiently flushed from the cold, so that the inevitable blush was lost on his already red cheeks.

“Why are you doing this?” Viktor asked. Irritation made his accent more prominent. “Why do you keep downplaying your achievements? You’re a Junior Grand Prix Final gold medallist, you’ve been the Japanese National Champion for three years _and_ you’re one of the best six men’s singles figure skaters in the world. How, _how_ can you think you’re mediocre when you’ve achieved all that?”

Yuuri opened his mouth to argue, because what he truly was a champion of was pointing out all of shortcomings. Had he been woken up in the middle of a night, he would have been able to list all the flows in his technique, all the elements he had never nailed, all the jumps and competitions he had ever failed at.

And then he closed it, because faced with the zealous fire of Viktor’s determination he was unable to utter a single word.

Viktor smiled softly at him, but there was sadness in his eyes; sadness Yuuri craved to chase away. “You’re not mediocre, Yuuri,” he said and dropped his hand as though he just noticed it was still clasped around Yuuri’s arm. “You had one bad skate for completely understandable reasons. You had a coach who didn’t know how to bring out your full potential and yet despite that you’ve been incredibly successful. Never let anyone convince you’re mediocre.”

“No one...” he began and backtracked, because that was not true. After all, Yuri Plisetsky’s angry yet absolutely justified words still rang in his ears, especially on days when dread of impending failure settled deep in his heart. “I mean it’s... it’s just...”

“It’s just your lack of confidence.” Viktor finished in his stead; ever-blunt, ever-straightforward, and yet Yuuri could not find it in himself to hate him for it. “I noticed that in Sochi. I’ll have to think how to bring it forth, because Yuuri, confidence looks so _sexy_ on you.”

Yuuri blinked and gaped at him, speechless and turning inhuman shades of red he had no hopes of blaming on the cold. It was an unimaginable combination, him and confidence; one he dreamt about but could not forge into something real. Viktor’s wistful words and a soft, dreamy smile were even worse than Yuuri’s partially acknowledged hopes for self-improvement. They were an impossibility taken from a parallel universe in which Yuuri could somehow be sexy.

Sexiness was just as far from Yuuri’s reach as a flawless skate.

“How... how can you even...” he stuttered, fiddling with his gloves. They were coming apart at the seams, thread by thread, worn out and weakened by years, and he thought they fit him perfectly. He was falling to pieces just like them.

Viktor tipped his chin upward and held it that way. His fingers barely grazed Yuuri’s cheeks, but it was the eyes that had him immobilised; blue and shining and so full of emotions. “I saw it at the banquet. Well, everyone did, no one could look away from you.” His chuckle was fond and filled to the brim with sentiment Yuuri wanted to hide from. It was unwarranted, born of a night of mistakes and questionable decisions, and centred around an image of Yuuri that did not exist in reality.

Had he not been so flustered, his heart would have crumbled under the weight of guilt and regret.

“I told you...” Voice faltering, Yuuri had to clear his throat, his entire being lost in the warmth of Viktor’s touch and the brightness of his gaze. He wished he could keep them in his life. He wished Viktor would not – eventually, ultimately – walk away from him. “I told you that wasn’t me.”

Viktor blinked, his hand falling down back to his side, and Yuuri found himself leaning that way, chasing the ghost of a touch that was no longer there.

“Oh, but it _is_ you, Yuuri,” Viktor said softly, quietly, only for Yuuri to hear. “It is. You’ve just done it today, when you stood up for yourself at the rink. Your eyes shone and you stood straighter and the look on your face could bring a lesser man to his knees. _That’s_ what you should show on the ice.”

Yuuri thought back to that moment at the rink, to giving in to the outburst of impulsiveness he should have resisted and to the pride he should have swallowed and forgotten for a few more weeks. All he felt was terror instead of a surge of confidence.

After Sochi, he had enough of terror and disappointment.

“I don’t know if...” he began and broke off, realising in time how deeply wrong his choice of words was. The conditional implied a possibility that Viktor’s assumption was sound, that Yuuri could somehow find a shred of confidence within himself and turn it into an armour he would don at a future competition, but Yuuri knew a futile hope when he was presented with it. “No. I don’t think I can do that.”

Viktor’s smile faltered, getting this unmistakably strained edge. Yuuri found the tiniest bit of pride in being able to discern the meaning behind Viktor’s smiles. Plenty, they were – and mostly fake.

“And that’s for me to figure out,” Viktor said. “To make you feel confident in yourself and your skills – even if only as a performance. I don’t know how, yet, but I’ll find out. I’ll learn. I promise.”

Yuuri’s chest was too small to accommodate his frantically beating heart, suddenly swollen with indescribable emotion and ready to burst. He thought he could fly, giddy and for once willing to forget how painful it was to crash into the ground once his dreams lost their wings.

“Viktor,” he whispered; a pitiful, broken sound he should be ashamed of. What little courage he had – battered and exhausted after a day that had spiralled into insanity – he gathered and looked up, right into Viktor’s expectant eyes, half-hidden by the fringe that lay flat against his face. A desperate craving to run his fingers through it suddenly rose within him, so strong that his heart twisted with a nigh physical ache. How he managed to stop himself from giving into it, he had no idea. “Viktor, you don’t need to. I’m not—”

 _‘Worth it,’_ remained unsaid, but Viktor’s open expression turned into something hard, almost desperate.

“Yes, you are,” he said. Yuuri’s eyes prickled with unshed tears. “You are.”

“I—”

Without any warning or preamble, Viktor put a finger on his lips. It did serve its purpose of cutting Yuuri’s protests short, even if another deep blush blossomed on his cheeks as a side effect. By the end of the day it would probably become permanent.

“You are. End of discussion.” Finality permeated Viktor’s every word. For once Yuuri knew better than to argue. “Now let’s forget about skating. You promised me the best pizza in Detroit and I want— _Bozhe_ , Yuuri!”

Panic seized him when Viktor’s eyes widened and focused on something with a terrifying intensity in a matter of second. “What? What is it?”

“Look at that labradoodle!” Viktor cooed and while it was a familiar tone, one Yuuri got used to because of their calls, never before had he seen how drastically Viktor’s face changed when he got into his dog-worshipping mode. And if only Viktor did not grab his hand with a joyous, “Come on!” and dragged him towards a woman walking that dog a few metres ahead of them, Yuuri would have tried to memorise it as well as he could.

And if he did snap a quick photo of Viktor with his hands buried deep in the dog’s fur, eyes alight with happiness and a wide smile on his face – well, no one had to know Yuuri allowed himself that one moment of weakness.

 

* * *

 

“Dude, _finally_ , I’ve been dying of—oh. Okay.”

Under different circumstances, it would have been hilarious to witness Phichit rendered speechless for the first time in his life. His wide eyes and a gaping mouth were a sight to remember – and yet all Yuuri did was cast his eyes downwards. Phichit’s expression was mirrored on Leo’s, Guang Hong’s, and Chad’s faces, and the sole reason for it was Viktor who leisurely walked into the room right after Yuuri. He was holding a pizza box like a treasure.

“Phichit, you should’ve told me to buy more food,” Yuuri hissed, his face aflame under the unwavering scrutiny he had no idea his rinkmates were capable of. “I didn’t know you were planning to invite the guys over.”

Viktor shot them a brilliant smile that did not reach his suddenly wary eyes. “Hi again!” he chirped and if Yuuri had not been listening to his greetings for almost two months now, he would have believed that joy was genuine. Now it sounded off, almost like a damaged recording, distorted and grating on his nerves.

Guang Hong, suddenly red and teary-eyed, hid his face in hands. Leo, on the other hand, jumped to his feet and waved his hands frantically. “No, no, we were just leaving, right?” he stammered. Guang Hong nodded and stood up as well, intently keeping his eyes transfixed on the floor. Chad was silent and pale, mindlessly fiddling with the hem of his jumper and looking anywhere but at Yuuri and Viktor. And Yuuri...

Yuuri wanted to scream, to grab and shake them for behaving that way; all the while a tiny voice at the back of his head kept yelling at him, _Hypocrite! You’ve done the same!_

As if he did not know.

“Yuuri?” Viktor’s question caught his attention and so Yuuri turned his back on his rinkmates, because it was the only way for him to breathe again. “Where should I put it?”

“Ah, sorry.” Yuuri hastily took the offered pizza box and put it on their tiny table. If he concentrated hard enough, he could pretend he was not hearing shuffling and muffled whispers behind his back. “That door over there is the bathroom if you want a shower or something.”

Viktor’s haggard features softened slightly. “ _Spasibo_ ,” he murmured, toed off his shoes and went to the bathroom without a further ado.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Phichit grabbed Yuuri’s arm, his grip vice-like. “Dude,” he hissed in a whisper that was anything but quiet, “you could’ve told me you were bringing him here, I would’ve gone and crashed at Leo’s.”

“We bought enough food, don’t worry.” Yuuri told him, stubbornly refusing to address the innuendo in Phichit’s deceptively generous offer.

“That’s _not_ what I meant and you know it. What kind of friend would I be if I stayed around when my roommate brought his hot boyfriend over?”

It had apparently been too much to hope Phichit would drop the subject. “For the last time, he’s not my boyfriend.” Yuuri realised his voice was barely recognisable, tired and raspy. There was a growing feeling of disquiet inside him, an overwhelming sense of wrongness he had no time to examine. He craved to be alone, sheltered from the world by means of a blanket and a turned-off phone. “And please, _please_ at least try to treat him like a normal guy. And no compromising photos.”

“But Yuuri—”

“No!”

Pizza had gone cold by the time Viktor emerged from the bathroom, but the room had never been so clean before. Yuuri probably broke a world record in making a college dorm look habitable. It did not quieten the hum of disquiet in his mind, but at least it kept the panic at bay.

Viktor Nikiforov was in his room, drying his hair with a towel he must have brought with him. He was staring at the pizza box with the expression of the man bereft of the love of his life. If before Sochi someone told Yuuri this would happen, he would have laughed and deemed them insane.

_(Viktor Nikiforov. His idol, his childhood celebrity crush, the main star of his first sexual fantasy, his friend and one weakness he somehow was not afraid to have)_

“We haven’t been properly introduced,” Phichit babbled, bringing Yuuri out of his stunned stupor. He watched his friend shake hands with Viktor. “I’m Phichit Chulanont.”

“Viktor Nikiforov, a pleasure. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

Phichit gasped theatrically, placing a hand over his heart for a good measure. “Does this mean you don’t pay attention to my flawless selfies? I’m hurt!” He grinned when Viktor just shrugged and smiled; nothing but a barely noticeable quirk of lips, but surprisingly genuine nonetheless. “Well, I can’t blame you. You’re not the only one who came for the photos of Yuuri. His fans make a half of my followers.”

“Phichit!” Yuuri shrieked, his cheeks aflame. “I told you—”

“He doesn’t believe he has fans,” Phichit told Viktor, because he apparently had no filter and lived only to embarrass Yuuri. “A quintuple jump is more possible than convincing him.”

Viktor said nothing, but his unwavering gaze full of exasperation was enough to make Yuuri duck his head and busy himself with heating up the pizza. He lost count how many times he had failed to convey that what he really meant was that they could not possibly remain around Phichit’s multitude of social media for long. Not when all Yuuri had ever done was disappoint what few fans he might have had.

 If they moved on to support another skater, he would not get mad. Hell, he would give them his blessing and a flower bouquet to make up for his failed competitions.

“So, Viktor,” Phichit began as if nothing happened, “how long are you staying?”

“I’m not, I’m flying out early in the morning. At three, I believe.” Viktor snaked his arms around Yuuri and grabbed the plate barely out of the microwave before Yuuri even registered what was happening. “ _Spasibo, radost’ moya_.”

“That’s... okay?” Phichit said, sounding as if he had troubles believing it, and never before had Yuuri shared that feeling more than he did now. It was one thing to go on an improvised trip across the state – doing the same across the world was another thing entirely. “Then have you seen the cinematic masterpiece—”

“Phichit, _no_.”

“—that is _The King and the Skater_?”

“I don’t believe that I have,” Viktor said, matching Phichit’s excitement for it far better than Yuuri had ever done.

“Then, my friend, sit down and prepare yourself for a treat.”

 

* * *

 

Viktor fell asleep halfway into the film.

His head lolled onto Yuuri’s shoulder and stayed there, a dead weight Yuuri would happily support for the rest of his life if only it was possible. At the beginning, Viktor had sat down quite far from him, so now he was bent almost in two, twisted in a position that would leave him sore if he remained in it for more than just a few minutes. Yuuri knew it all too well. He would fall asleep the same way in toilet stalls and locker rooms, leaning against anything solid, and waiting – for people to leave, for tears to pass, for thoughts to slow down.

“Phichit, can you pass me a pillow?” he asked quietly, even though it was perhaps too great a precaution. After all, the movie was still blaring out of the speakers of Phichit’s laptop, thunderous and catchy as always. Yuuri may or may not have had nightmares featuring _Shall We Skate?_ playing on loop.

Not that he would ever admit it to Phichit.

“Wha—oh. Yeah, sure.”

Phichit deposited the pillow right into Yuuri’s lap, which was either a grand leap of faith or a truly outstanding example of foresight. Yuuri, mentally and physically exhausted and past caring at that point – yet alert enough to not blush – manoeuvred Viktor’s limp body to his side and lowered his head onto the pillow.

He could have simply laid him down on the bed and then give him space, move to the desk or the floor or Phichit’s bed and wait until it was time for Viktor to wake up and get ready to go to the airport. But Yuuri was a weak, weak man with a roller coaster of a day behind him, and if he could allow himself one small indulgence, that would be it. Perhaps it was not the same as holding Viktor in his arms the way it had happened in Sochi, but he would take what he got.

And yet Phichit’s delighted cackle was going to haunt him till the end of time, he was sure of that.

“And my laptop, please?”

“I’ll go to Leo’s.” Phichit announced once he put the computes within Yuuri’s reach. “You stay here and cuddle with your not-boyfriend.”

Much to his own surprise, Yuuri realised he was too tired to argue. “You can stop the movie on your way out,” he said instead, brain-to-mouth filter long gone and forgotten. Or maybe it was just the will to care that he was lacking.

“How dare you.” Phichit hissed and even if he tried, never again would he do a better impersonation of Yuri Plisetsky’s seething tone. At least unlike the junior champion, he was neither bark nor bite.

“He’s asleep and I’ve seen it already. Besides,” he pointed at his laptop, “I need to go through my notes in Strategic Management.”

Phichit sighed deeply like a man hurt and heartbroken. “Okay, _fine_ ,” he acquiesced and snapped his laptop shut. Yuuri could still hear echoes of the music in his head. “I’ll be back later. Be safe, use protection and all that.”

Yuuri groaned and somehow stopped himself from banging the back of his head against the wall.

Phichit cheerfully chirped, “See ya!” and then he was gone, leaving Yuuri in a blessed silence filled only with the sound of Viktor’s regular breathing.

He did not know when his hand found its way to Viktor’s head, when he started running his fingers through strands of Viktor’s hair, when his gaze landed on Viktor’s neck and stayed there instead of his laptop’s screen – it must have happened sometime between one page of notes and another, between hours and heartbeats, in this tiny moment between an idea and a decision.

Whenever it happened, it soon rendered time irrelevant. Yuuri was presented with the silence he had been craving ever since the argument with Celestino, and even though this time it did not come in pairs with solitude, somehow he did not mind. Viktor’s presence did not aggravate him neither did it send him into a frenzy of a desperate search of seclusion. Watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the peaceful expression on his face, memorising the contour of his jaw, showing the first hints of a stubble, and the tiny winkles in the corner of his eyes – for some reason it brought Yuuri the much needed peace of mind. It must have bloomed from the wonder of the moment, the impossibility turned into reality by the means of one decision and a ridiculous amount of sheer luck.

In a dim light of a bedside lamp, Yuuri sat and wanted – and had no courage to make a decision.

“Mmm,” Viktor murmured at some point, his eyes still closed. Yuuri did not know how much time had passed – he was content just to have lost the track of it. “This is nice.”

And just like that it all came crashing down – the want, the audacity to touch, the eerie peace of mind – and Yuuri brought his hand back to his chest with a startled yelp. “I’m sorry!” he squeaked, panic fuelling the embarrassment coming to life in his chest. “I didn’t—I mean, I’m so sorry.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor chided him, his voice still raspy from sleep. He reached out and gently touched Yuuri’s hand. “I said it was nice. You can... Ah...”

With morbid fascination, Yuuri watched a blush erupt on Viktor’s cheeks, unexpected and captivating, and in a flash of certainty, he knew.

A contented sigh that escaped Viktor’s lips when Yuuri touched his head again. It was the most beautiful sound in the entire world.

“I’m sorry,” he said, unable to stop himself.

“What for?” Viktor’s eyes fluttered open again. He was a warm weight in Yuuri’s lap, and an incredible softness under his hands.

“For being afraid.”

Viktor was silent for a long while. “I’m sorry too,” was his eventual response, one Yuuri did not expect. “For pushing at the rink. I promised you I wouldn’t, but I did.”

“Push— _oh_.” The memory of their encounter at the rink came to his mind and with it, Viktor’s teasing tone and cheeky smile. “I didn’t... I didn’t mind that.”

“I’m relieved to hear that, but I’m still sorry. I’m not exactly the most patient man and sometimes it... it shows.”

All Yuuri could do was nod, his thoughts racing. Did Viktor mean it as a hint? Was is supposed to speed Yuuri’s decision process up? Was Viktor getting tired of waiting, just like Yuuri thought he would?

“And I’m also clingy, needy, and full of unrealistic expectations, which is something I probably should’ve mentioned sooner.” Viktor let out a dry, humourless laugh that left Yuuri with a growing sense of unease. “But the point is, I want this – us – to work, so I promise I’ll try not to make you uncomfortable again.”

“I told you I didn’t mind. I really didn’t. I’d... I’d probably have run away if I did. But... Viktor?”

“ _Da?_ ”

“Why did you say you’re...” He hesitated, words stuck in his throat like thorns.

“Clingy and needy?” Viktor supplied, looking strangely detached. He sighed and sat up, joints cracking as he stretched. “That’s just how I am, there’s no need to be weird about that.”

“I don’t think you’re—”

“Yuuri.” Viktor interrupted. “We’re not... Friendship is not the kind of relationship in which you’d find out about that. Which is why I’m telling you now, because you apologised for being afraid even though it’s nothing to apologise for. So I simply thought you should know and take that into consideration if you ever want... _us_ to change.”

There was nothing he could say to that, dumbstruck and breathless. All this time he thought it was a matter of ‘ _when_ ’, whilst to Viktor it apparently had only ever been an uncertain ‘ _if_ ’. And one depending solely on him at that, as though Viktor himself settled for whatever Yuuri was willing to give him.

Clearing his throat, Viktor pointed at the bathroom door and stood up. “I’m going to... yeah.”

Yuuri recognised it as an excuse to escape the conversation. He was hardly going to call Viktor out on it, let alone stop him – having done the same countless times before, all he felt was a steadily growing feeling of wrongness and incomprehension.

“I’ll call you a taxi,” he said to the closed door, knowing perfectly well Viktor was not going to hear him.

He felt infinitesimally better for doing that, though.

 

* * *

 

It was snowing when they stepped outside.

Yuuri burrowed deeper into his coat and scarf, trying to find remnants of warmth Viktor had left on his body like markings. It was mostly gone already, disappearing like mist in the morning sun, even though he was still standing right next to Yuuri – pensive, with his head tilted upwards and eyes trailing after falling snowflakes as if they left abstract patterns which he was trying to find a meaning in.

Clingy and needy, Viktor had called himself. A combination Yuuri preferred to run away from.

“Are you all right?” The words were out before he could stop himself. Truth be told, he would do _anything_ to break the uneasy silence filled with tension and tinged with regret that settled between them after the conversation that without questions had gone in a completely wrong direction. Viktor had said it himself – that side of him would never affect their friendship and that was exactly what they had. Nothing more, unless Yuuri changed his mind.

He should never have been given that kind of power over anyone. He had no clue what to do with it, no idea how to proceed – all he knew was that he would most likely end up hurting them both.

Viktor looked at him, snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes and hair, and smiled. It looked like broken glass.

“Of course I am!” he said, and Yuuri wanted to grab and shake him, to make him stop lying. That was not the kind of familiarity they had, though. All there was between them was born of phone calls and distance. A few stolen, unexpected moments did nothing to change it. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Yuuri forced himself to smile as well; an empty grimace distorting his face into a mask that felt wrong. “Of course,” he said and that was the end of it. Pushing for answers was not something he was going to do. “I... I still can’t believe you came here only for a day.”

Viktor’s laugh was loud in the stillness of the night. “Well, if I get kicked out of the rink again, maybe I’ll do it again. It’s been fun.”

 _Yes, please_ , Yuuri wanted to say. Or maybe he should ask, _Will you?_ And yet he simply blurted out, “I’m going back to Japan after Four Continents.”

“Oh. You’ll be ahead of me, then.”

“I... I guess I will be, yes.”

“It’ll be nice to wake up to _your_ texts for a change.” Viktor threw in a wink for a good measure. Yuuri’s face heated up, because those winks and smiles never failed to make his heart flutter and his knees go weak. And then Viktor’s face fell – and so did Yuuri’s heart. “I mean, if you’ll feel like it, of course. I’d never—”

“Of course I will,” Yuuri said and hoped his voice was steady enough to convey the meaning he was not brave enough to say aloud. “I wouldn’t change anything.”

Viktor smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. Yuuri did not know the reason for it, but he wanted to reach out and erase it. He balled his hands into fists instead.

“Maybe I’ll come to Japan, then.”

It was an offhand remark, perhaps even instinctive, but a kaleidoscope of images came to life in Yuuri’s mind unprompted and impossible to forget. Viktor under the cherry trees, his eyes full of wonder. Viktor on the beach, all windswept hair and smiles rivalling the sun itself with their brightness. Viktor wearing a kimono for Tanabata festivities, his face illuminated by myriads of lanterns.

Viktor bathing in the onsen, his face flushed and skin covered in beads of sweat slowly trailing downwards.

“Yes,” Yuuri croaked through a suddenly parched throat. “You should do that.”

“Yuuri?”

“If you want, I m-mean, I-I... oh god. Please forget I said anything.” Yuuri pulled up the scarf all the way to his eyes, hoping to hide the most of the blush underneath it.

Cursed be his heart, that weak thing, and cursed be his mind for giving up without a fight.

And then the warmth was back again when he found himself in Viktor’s arms – and damn it all; damn the fear and the stress and the waiting he had condemned himself to. Yuuri returned the embrace with twice the strength and an infinitely greater desperation. If the world ended the following day, or if Viktor got tired of waiting, he would at least have that one moment more.

“I’d love to,” Viktor murmured into Yuuri’s temple, warming his skin. Yuuri nodded in response, not trusting himself to say anything coherent. “I’ll text you when I land?”

It was not exactly a question and yet neither was it just a statement, so Yuuri just nodded again, hoping it would be enough. He looked at Viktor and Viktor looked at him, and all the affection and warmth and boundless longing in his gaze left Yuuri trembling. He closed his eyes and pushed his face into Viktor’s neck, the smell of his own soap on Viktor’s skin suddenly becoming the headiest and the most addictive cologne. Viktor’s arms tightened around him and Yuuri let him pull him closer, back into the warmth he missed so dearly. He would not mind falling asleep like that, he realised; safe and warm and unexpectedly content with the presence of another person he usually refused. He would not mind feeling the hot breath on his skin, nor the fleeting kiss grazing his cheekbone—

He drew back, dumbfounded, his heart beating so fast he was afraid it was going to fail any second. Viktor’s cheeks were crimson when he dropped his arms and took an unsteady step back. “I, ah... I’ll see you at Worlds.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri blurted out, dazed and cold once again. His face was on fire he did not feel in the slightest.

Watching the taxi leave into the night proved akin to ripping the heart out of his chest. Yuuri simply stood there as snow fell around him, trying to convince himself that nothing changed, that Viktor had not dropped a revelation akin to a nuclear bomb on him and then left after a moment of lost control Yuuri did not even know what to think about.

He had never wanted to hold Viktor’s heart in his hands and have the power to smash it to pieces; not when his own was barely holding together.

Long minutes passed before his head cleared out a bit, but when it did, his mind was at peace he usually found only in an empty rink and a freshly smoothed ice. And before he could think better of it, he took out his phone, chose the contact and pressed call.

“Yuuri?” he heard after far too many signals. “Is that you?”

“I… Yes, it’s me. I need a favour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #LetViktorSayBlyat2k18
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://naamah-beherit.tumblr.com/) in case you'd like to say hello, file a complaint report, or witness occasional floods of photos of dogs and the outer space.


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